My mother always taught me that if you’re not sleeping with your husband enough, he will look elsewhere.
It’s a lesson I tried to instil in my own daughter, Jane. Before she married, I implored her to be realistic about men’s desire for regular sex and always put matters in the bedroom first.
Jane shrugged off my ‘antiquated’ views, condescendingly telling me no self-respecting modern man would ever act in this way.
But I was proved right. After they had their three children and Jane was busy juggling her career and motherhood, my son-in-law did indeed have an affair. With me.
Yes, you read that correctly. I slept with the father of my grandchildren, my beloved daughter’s husband.
And yes, I am daring to insinuate that it was my daughter’s fault for losing sight of her husband’s needs.
Ironically, it was Jane who suggested Mike come and stay with me for six months, due to a work commitment away from home. I had accepted, believing it meant I could keep an eye on him on her behalf.
And yet… I found myself drawn to this funny, charming, intelligent and very attractive man who told me my daughter refused to be intimate with him.
Writer Laura McGill says she and her son-in-law were both desperately lonely (file image)
Believe me, I understand why you’d want me crucified. But I’m not a heartless monster. This wasn’t just no-strings sex; we had developed real feelings for each other.
And both of us were desperately lonely, after years of trying to deny deep-rooted fears that our marriages were off-kilter.
My own husband, Pete, also worked away from home for weeks at a time. And when he was home, I felt like he didn’t really ‘see’ me. Whereas Mike looked at me like I was a goddess. He was the first person in years who really listened.
But I know what we did was wrong. So how can I live with myself?
It helps that my daughter and I live in different countries – the reason Mike needed somewhere to stay in the UK in the first place. If I had to see her every day the guilt would finish me off.
I was 19 when I fell pregnant with Jane while studying English literature. I was desperately in love with her father, naively assuming he felt the same and we could raise our baby together. Sadly, he had no intention of sticking around.
My mother distant with me and quite authoritarian. When I told her I was pregnant, she was of the ‘you’ve made your bed, lie in it’ school of thought.
I was forced to drop out of university, telling myself I’d return as a mature student. I never did.
What’s worse, a horribly complicated birth meant my womb was removed – meaning I could never have more children.
At the time, I was too young to understand the ramifications, but goodness I’ve cried over the years whenever I linger on it for too long.
In those early years I utterly resented being a mum, while my friends were out enjoying themselves and dating. By the time I considered dating again, I found most young men didn’t want to be saddled with another man’s child. I was incredibly lonely.
That said, I was besotted with my gorgeous daughter. I moved back in with Mum, who helped look after Jane. She was far more affectionate towards her granddaughter than she ever had been to me.
Aged 30, I had my own marketing business and when Jane was eight we moved out of mum’s and into a rented home.
It was five years later, when I was 35, that I met Pete, then 40, at a networking event. He was my first relationship since Jane’s dad.
Pete was a funny, wise man who knew his way around a posh menu and had a cup half-full approach to life. Mum said I was lucky he was interested and, while I smarted at her comment, she was right.
Admittedly, though he did make me laugh and was reasonably good-looking, I probably wouldn’t have been attracted to Pete if I hadn’t already been a mother. But, in my situation, he seemed like a pretty good bet.
Pete worked – and still does – in technology sales, and joked that airports were his second home. I knew from the off he’d be away at least one week in four.
But when, after six months of dating, he proposed, I knew his salary would mean I could ease off with work and focus more on Jane.
A year after we met, Pete and I were married.
Jane, then 14, very much approved of Pete. She had worried about me being alone.
As she progressed into her late teens, it was clear we weren’t particularly similar. She is extremely empathetic, the first to volunteer for this charity or that good deed, whereas I confess that’s just not me. I’m far more outgoing than she is, too.
We don’t look alike either. Jane isn’t blessed with my willowy figure; she is very much her father’s daughter. Short and brunette, she’s much more curvaceous; I’d always tried to ensure she watched what she ate.
At 18, Jane went to university to study languages. After graduating, she travelled around South America and Europe. She was 25 when she met Mike, then 28, while they were both in Spain.
It was her first serious relationship, I was thrilled she’d bagged herself such a man. A tall, rowing type, he was charming to be around and had a good background; privately educated, he’d grown up in Wiltshire here his father was a GP.
I must admit I did worry she was punching slightly above her weight. Yet I could see they were utterly besotted with one another, always very tactile.
When they married two years later, I was very proud.
At the wedding, Mike raised a toast to me, jokingly declaring me ‘the foxy mother-in-law’ who he wanted to thank for raising such a perfect daughter. Our guests responded with innocent laughter, Pete included.
But deep down, I adored the validation, and when Mike later insisted on a dance with me, I got lost in the moment.
Two years after the wedding, they decided to move to Spain. Both had been offered jobs in the banking industry and Jane was thrilled at the prospect.
Three years later their children arrived one year after another. Jane and I became closer, messaging daily and chatting a couple of times a week.
I was so proud of the life she had created. But at times it did make me feel a little maudlin considering how my own life had panned out.
As the years passed, Pete would spend his usual one week in four overseas. Our life was good but, deep down, I was lonely.
Then in 2022, Mike, by then 43, had to return to the UK for a six-month work contract. It was Jane who suggested that, as my four-bedroom home was not far from Manchester airport, I’d put him up for ‘a bit’.
I was only too happy to help them out – and Pete was fine with this arrangement too.
He was spending more and more time in the Far East and had been lightly broaching the subject of us moving out there permanently.
Given his salary meant that, now aged 60, I didn’t really need to keep working myself, the sensible option would have been to move out there with him.
Yet I dithered; the extra distance would make it so much harder to visit Jane and my grandchildren.
And so, that winter, my son-in-law and I were mostly alone together in mine and Pete’s home. Mike would stay with me for four nights and return to Spain for the weekends.
At first, never having spent any time alone together, we were both very stilted. I had to keep asking Jane things like what kind of food he liked. But after the first few weeks I had a word with myself to just relax.
The first two months whizzed by, and come Christmas Jane and the children flew over, with Pete also coming home.
But then January began to really bite. It’s such a long month – particularly as Pete was absent the entire time and due to stay away in February. As I had ‘company’, he felt relaxed about remaining where he was.
At first, I felt miserable. But then I began to realise how much I enjoyed Mike’s company.
For starters he is more talkative than Pete. And attentive too, deferring to me over which wine to drink, or what to watch on TV and complimenting how I looked on my way out to work in the mornings.
We started cooking dinner together, and the wine we shared meant we had some really deep and interesting conversations.
He told me all about his childhood, his turbulent teenage years and his plans for the future.
He confided that he’d like to travel around the world on a boat with Jane and the kids.
Given how much of a homebody she’d become since being a mum, I told him good luck persuading her. We both laughed, conspiratorially.
From then on the little confidences about Jane began trickling through our conversations. Jane would never cook as good a roast chicken as this; Jane hates it when I fill the car up for her; it simply wouldn’t occur to Jane to charge my iPad for me.
I never defended Jane when he said these things, mainly because I was basking in the unaccustomed praise. I didn’t realise a line had been crossed until, one night, Mike began opening up about their lack of intimacy.
It started innocently enough. When I mentioned Pete was coming home and Mike joked, ‘I bet he drags you upstairs!’ with an ironic laugh. It was obvious he thought it was unlikely.
I had to smile because, despite everything, Pete and I had always had a good sex life. Mike’s face fell at my open blush. ‘Lucky you, chance would be a fine thing with Jane’, he said.
Then it all poured out; Jane had had a difficult birth with their third child five years before, and had gone off sex. They’d do it just once a month, ‘if that’.
When I gently asked Mike if he’d talked to her about it, he told me he’d even suggested seeing a couple’s counsellor but Jane declined. According to Mike, she was more focused on their children than him.
I wanted to shake Jane; yes, it’s hard raising three children, but she’d fallen into the very trap I’d once warned her about.
There was always the possibility Mike was spinning things. Either way, there was no way I could intervene – I didn’t want to badmouth Jane, and there was no question of telling her what he’d said. But I felt for Mike.
And, I admit, I also felt angry with Jane. I knew what it was like to spend all those years as a young mum without a partner. How I would have loved the attentions of a handsome husband like Mike.
A week later, after we’d cooked dinner together one evening, our normal bottle of wine turned into two.
Sat across the kitchen table, Mike reached over to caress my hand, saying: ‘You’re a very special woman, Laura.’
It took all my might to pull away, but I did, saying I needed to go to bed.
The following morning he apologised, and that night went home to Jane and the children. I spent the weekend wondering if I should call time on our arrangement. There were still two months left – and we were dangerously close to crossing a line.
Yet in spite of myself, I was counting down the hours until he was back, feeling oddly excited at the thought of seeing him again.
He arrived home with a bottle of Malbec, and we cooked dinner as usual. We were listening to Neil Young when my favourite song Harvest Moon came on. Mike asked me to dance.
Why, oh why, didn’t I say no?
In his arms, he started nuzzling my neck. It made me feel utterly alive, lost in the moment without a thought for the consequences. I’m not sure who kissed who, but one thing led to another. It was incredible; I felt so desired.
Afterwards, I was horrified, ordering Mike out of my bedroom and telling him it must never happen again. I was so consumed with guilt, I didn’t sleep a wink.
The next morning, I stayed in my room until he left for work, and retreated there before he came home. He knocked on the door, but I pretended to be asleep.
I couldn’t hide for ever. So the next evening, I was waiting in the kitchen when he got home again.
Call it chemistry, call it desire, call it complete and utter foolishness. But when I saw him, looking neither embarrassed nor regretful but hopeful, the pull was too strong.
And so began a cycle during those two final months that was both wonderful and torturous. During the four nights Mike was with me, we’d have sex each night, until he returned to Spain on the Friday.
I’d then spend the weekend in tears, missing him but utterly guilt-ridden and hating myself. What was I doing sleeping with my son-in-law? How could I keep betraying my daughter?
I carried on with my usual calls to Jane but she never once asked how Mike was. She was looking forward to his permanent return, but it was just so he could share the ‘burden’ of childcare.
Hearing this seeming confirmation of what Mike had told me did make me feel slightly less guilty.
Should I have told her? The truth was, I wanted Mike to myself.
What about Pete? Actually I didn’t feel an ounce of guilt on that score because, while I’d never had any proof, I’d always suspected he was cheating on me while he was away.
It did occur to me that Mike may have been unfaithful to Jane before, but I never asked him. I didn’t want to know.
Our affair ended when he returned full-time to Spain. Once he was home, he rarely spoke to me – just perfunctory messages via social media.
The absence of any acknowledgement made me feel like I was going mad. But I recognised there was no way either of us could risk any references to what had gone on.
And a tiny part of me realises he was probably just using me during those two months.
Six months later, I moved to the Far East to join Pete, who is none the wiser.
He puts my mood swings down to missing my daughter and grandchildren. But actually they are more down to the fact I viscerally miss Mike’s presence in my life.
While I would be devastated if my daughter ever found out – I know I would lose not just her but my grandchildren – I don’t regret the feeling of vitality that my affair with Mike gave me.
Would I ever do it again? The truth is I just don’t know.
- Laura McGill is a pseudonym. Names have been changed
