When Infidelity Runs in the Family

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I got hooked on Showtime’s award-winning drama, The Affair, mostly because it aired after Homeland. I’m all about spy thrillers, but stories about well-off folks who can’t keep their pants zipped? Not so much—especially since I live in New York, where the plot seems all too familiar. The main character, Noah, is a struggling writer and high school teacher. On a bad day, I feel like a female version of him—swapping out writer for playwright and high school teacher for adjunct professor.

I watch TV to escape reality. Take me to far-off places like Pakistan or Nashville, but please don’t make me sit through a dinner party in Brooklyn filled with writers fretting over their latest projects—that’s basically breakfast at my house. I was meant to enjoy The Affair, but as a matter of principle, I resisted. However, I couldn’t tear myself away. Now, I count myself among its fans; it takes a story that’s all too relatable and gives it a unique twist with incredible skill. Still, my initial reluctance stemmed from a deeper place.

You see, I come from a long line of unfaithful types. Infidelity is practically part of our family DNA. My maternal grandfather was married four times, and three of those ended because he was already cozying up to someone else. One of his divorces was so scandalous that the court records were locked away for 50 years, and I can only imagine the drama behind that. My grandmother? She was married three times, and there are whispers that one of my aunts isn’t really her biological child. Conversations at family gatherings often revolve around who your real parents might be.

On my father’s side, he was married to one woman for many years (not my mother), yet he remained notoriously unfaithful, even following women home from the bus. What exactly went down on those bus rides? I can’t say; I’ve never met anyone on a bus I wanted to see again!

As for my mother, while I would love to paint her as a beacon of fidelity, she had a taste for very unavailable, very married men. Most of her notorious affairs happened before I was born, so I can’t claim to have witnessed them. Before she passed, she attempted to write a memoir chronicling her early romantic escapades—though she never finished it. I’m not sure if she strayed during her brief marriages, but there wasn’t really much time for it.

The phrase “happily married” has always made me uneasy. I grew up in a home where my mother was often not married, yet she seemed to find happiness in that. As a kid, I envisioned a family with myself and two daughters—no husbands or fathers in sight. But reality is different; my closest family now includes my husband, Mark. We’re happy and married, and in many ways, I owe that to my mother.

She spent a significant portion of her last 15 years on a small Greek island, working to restore a 300-year-old stone house—her sole possession. This house, much like her memoir, remained unfinished. In my 20s, visiting her required a lengthy journey involving a 10-hour flight to Greece, a night in Athens, and then a six-hour ferry to the rocky island she called home. As a struggling actress, this was not an easy trip.

In September of my 25th year, I made the trip because I thought I was in love with an actor who had played my husband in a summer production. He was a drunk and a cheater, but I was infatuated. When I shared this news with my mother over the phone, I hoped for some empathy. Instead, she offered me a plane ticket to Greece, courtesy of her new credit card—she believed a trip would mend my broken heart.

I was a terrible guest, crying at breakfast while my mother pretended not to notice. She busied herself with home repairs she couldn’t afford, ignoring my emotional outbursts. After an especially grim breakfast, I stormed off to a beach, feeling isolated. That’s when I bumped into Jake, a childhood friend visiting his mother. We swam together and reminisced about our younger days, easing my heartache.

A few days later, my mother threw me a birthday party at a borrowed house. She invited a bunch of men, hoping to cheer me up. I suddenly felt empathy for Penelope from The Odyssey, juggling suitors while Odysseus was away. Stressed, I opted to drink, downing a few glasses of Retsina. I noticed Jake sitting alone, and when he handed me a small malachite box with a garnet inside, I felt a spark of courage. In a tipsy moment, I told him I wished everyone else would leave, prompting him to take charge and end the party!

The best part of my married life has been how effortlessly Mark and my mother connected. While she was usually hard on my past boyfriends, she praised Mark to the point of annoyance. As she faced her own struggles, she found joy in discussing books with him. He was the one who would jump into action when it mattered, and I feel immensely lucky to have him.

I sometimes wonder if my mother left this world a bit early because she was at peace knowing her daughters had found love. My sister, Liz, married one of my mother’s close friends, steering us away from the romantic pitfalls she had faced. Rather than dwell on her past mistakes, she guided us to find what she couldn’t: the right partners.

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In summary, this reflection on family patterns of infidelity reveals how they shape our lives and the choices we make in love. While my lineage may be marked by unfaithfulness, I’ve managed to carve out a different path for myself, finding true companionship and joy.