I stumbled upon Showtime’s award-winning series, The Affair, while watching Homeland. As a fan of espionage tales, I was intrigued, but I found myself less engaged by the lives of affluent New Yorkers embroiled in infidelity, especially since my own life bears too many similarities. The show’s protagonist, Noah Solloway, is a struggling novelist and high school English teacher. On my tougher days, I can relate to him, albeit with a few tweaks: replace novelist with playwright and high school teacher with adjunct professor.
I typically turn to television for an escape from reality—whether that’s exploring the landscapes of Pakistan or the small-town life in Fargo. I certainly don’t seek out Brooklyn dinner parties filled with writers lamenting over their work—those are the conversations I have at home. While I initially resisted The Affair on principle, I found myself captivated by its clever storytelling. My hesitation came from a deeper place, one rooted in my family’s history.
Infidelity seems to be a recurring theme in my lineage. My maternal grandfather had four marriages, with three ending due to his affairs with future wives. One of his divorces was so scandalous that the court documents were sealed for 50 years, hinting at a level of misbehavior that would make the events of The Affair appear mild by comparison. My grandmother had three marriages, and whispers about the true parentage of one of my aunts are not uncommon at family gatherings. It’s typical dinner conversation on my mother’s side to speculate about one’s biological parents.
On my father’s side, he was married for many years (not to my mother), yet was notoriously unfaithful, often pursuing women he encountered on public transportation. I can’t say what transpired on those bus rides—I’ve never met anyone on a bus I wanted to see again—so I chalk it up to a different era and my father’s good looks.
Though I wish I could present my mother as a beacon of fidelity amidst this chaos, she had a penchant for unavailable, married men. Most of her more notorious affairs occurred before my time, and she never quite completed the memoir she intended to write about her romantic escapades. I’m not sure if she cheated during her brief marriages, but those relationships were so fleeting that it’s hard to tell.
The phrase “happily married” has always made me uneasy. I grew up in a home where my mother was often single and generally content. As a child, I envisioned my future family as consisting of me and two daughters, with no husbands or fathers in sight. Yet today, my immediate family includes my husband, Max. We’re happy and married, and in many ways, I owe that to my mother.
For a significant portion of her later life, my mother resided on a small Greek island, restoring a dilapidated 300-year-old home. She invested her modest advance for a memoir on this renovation, which remains incomplete, just like her book. Visiting her in my twenties meant a long journey involving a flight to Greece and a ferry ride to her isolated abode, a costly trek for a struggling actress and massage therapist.
During my 25th year, I made the trip out of necessity. I believed I was in love with an actor who portrayed my husband in a summer production. He was a notorious drinker and a cheater, and I was infatuated. When I shared my romantic woes with my mother over the phone, I hoped for understanding. Instead, she offered me a plane ticket—thankfully, she had just received a new credit card. She insisted that September in Greece would mend my broken heart.
I wasn’t the best guest, crying at breakfast while my mother attempted to distract me with stories about her home renovations. After one particularly dismal meal, I accused her of being cold-hearted and escaped to my favorite beach. There, while listening to my Alanis Morissette CD, I felt the weight of loneliness. Suddenly, a familiar tap on my shoulder revealed it was Max, a childhood friend who was also visiting the island. Together, we took a dip in the chilly sea and reminisced about our past.
A few days later, my mother threw me a birthday party, borrowing a fully furnished house for the occasion. She only invited men—her attempts to find me companionship were both amusing and overwhelming. I felt sympathy for Penelope from The Odyssey, juggling suitors while waiting for Odysseus. I could have left or drowned my sorrows in drink. I chose the latter and soon found Max, who offered me a malachite box with a garnet inside, which he had discovered on his island wanderings. Feeling bold, I initiated playful footsie under the table, and he promptly declared the party over when I wished for everyone to leave.
One of the bright spots in my married life is how effortlessly Max and my mother connected. Despite her history of poor romantic choices, she had a soft spot for him, often praising his intellect and originality. As her mental health declined, she found solace in conversations about literature with him. Max, the kind of man who would abandon his plans to comfort a friend, is truly a treasure.
I often think my mother departed this world with some peace, knowing that her daughters found love. My sister, Lila, ended up marrying one of my mother’s closest friends. It seems she guided us away from the romantic pitfalls she faced repeatedly, helping us find the love she never quite achieved in her own adventurous life.
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In summary, navigating the legacy of infidelity within a family can be daunting, but love and connection can prevail. My journey has shown me the importance of finding the right partner and the impact of our upbringing on our relationships.