I’ve done the unforgivable, and now I don’t know how to carry on.
My name is William, and I want to tell you my story—dark, heavy as a stone on my heart. I’ve wrestled with whether to bring this into the light, but perhaps someone here can point me out of this hell. I live in a village called Ashford, nestled in the fields of Kent, and these past few days, my life has turned into a waking nightmare.
I’ve been married to Emily for fifteen years. We have two wonderful children, a boy and a girl—the light of my life. Emily is calm, steady as a still river. But her younger sister, Beatrice, ten years her junior, is a tempest, a fire that burns everything in its path. Recently, Beatrice divorced—she and her husband couldn’t make it work, and their marriage collapsed like a house of cards. I thought it was her business, that it wouldn’t touch me. How wrong I was.
Last week, Emily took the children to holiday by the Thames—to swim, soak up the sun, and escape the daily grind. I stayed behind to fix the leaky roof, which drips after every rain. By day, I worked on repairs, and by evening, I’d invite mates over—sharing a pint or two of home-brewed ale, talking about life. Everything was normal until Beatrice called. She said she was lonely, lost after the divorce, and asked if she could visit for a few days. She lives in the next town over, not far, so without thinking, I said, “Of course, come by.”
Within hours, she arrived. I laid out a spread—cheese, cured meats, bread, a bottle of ale. We ate, drank, talked. Beatrice told me her ex wouldn’t leave her alone, begging her to come back one moment, threatening her the next. Then she confessed she’d fallen for someone else. With the ale loosening my tongue, I pressed her for details, but she just waved me off with a coy smile. The conversation flowed, the drinks emptied, and at some point, I realised we’d both had too much. Then she looked me in the eye and said, “It’s you, William. I’ve loved you for ages.”
Her words hit me like a thunderclap. She knew I was married, that I had a family, yet she laid her cards on the table anyway. I don’t know what came over me—whether it was the ale or the fire in her gaze—but we kissed. It was madness, brief as a lightning strike. It went no further, yet since then, Beatrice hasn’t left my thoughts.
Emily returned from her trip, the children race through the house, and I move through it like a ghost. The thought of Beatrice burns inside me—her voice, her laugh, even her scent clings like brambles. I catch myself waiting for our next meeting; she promised to visit next week, and the anticipation drives me mad. I know I’ve done something awful, unforgivable. I’ve betrayed Emily, our family, myself. But my feelings for Beatrice grow like weeds I can’t uproot.
What do I do? Does she truly love me, or is this just a lonely woman’s game? And me—I’m falling into this abyss too. I’m ashamed before Emily, before the kids, yet Beatrice is a magnet I can’t pull away from. Should I talk to her? Ask what this was? Or stay silent and hope it fades? I don’t want to ruin my marriage or whatever this is with Beatrice—but how do I keep this fragile peace when a storm rages inside me? I’m lost, drowning in this guilt, and every day I ask myself: how do I live with this secret eating me alive? Tell me, I beg you—anyone. I don’t know how to atone for what I’ve done, and I fear this fire will burn down everything I’ve built for years.