‘When the Kids Move Out’ and Other Lies in Adultery

I’ve used the “when the kids move out” line, too. This is a classic in adultery land.

False hope.

You string your affair partner along for the ride.

“We’ll be together someday soon.”
“I can’t wait…”
“It’s going to happen, I promise, baby.”

It’s not. I assure you.

The day the “kids move out” will trigger another excuse. “My wife needs me, now. She’s going through some rough times.” Or, “I need to go slow. This transition is rocky.” Or, “Let’s take this a day at a time. No need to rush. We have the rest of our lives to be together.”

All of these may be legit or not. Probably, not. I’m cynical for a good reason. Years of cheating will do that to you.

I don’t think waiting for your lover to have their children out of the house makes an iota of difference. They aren’t going to change the status quo. Why would they? They are comfortable. Inertia is hard to overcome.

Telling you the truth would only backfire.

Because they risk losing you.

They lie until they can — the strings become knots holding you in place. Freeing yourself seems impossible.

What do you do when two people in an inherently temporary situation want permanence? You put a milestone in the distant future that you rally around. It’s like a mirage on the horizon — shimmering and lush. Trudging through the desert parched till you lap up the lies eagerly.

“When my youngest is gone…”

Pouring sand in a wound. That’s what this is.

My oldest is going to college in a few weeks. I’m at a crossroads. Except, I haven’t promised any affair partner that “I’m leaving,” yet I feel the shift in the winds of my marriage.

How long can I bear this?
Why do I stay?
What is the best thing for me?

The space between us only growing. When our kids are gone, do my husband and I rediscover each other again?

Questions that I don’t have the answer to quite yet.

I do know is that I don’t buy the “we’re meant to be together” facade of love, either. Both my marriage and affairs have false fronts. Appearances can be deceiving. What looks solid is crumbling, like the apartment building that collapsed in Florida. Everyone crushed. When do we know the foundation is rotten? Not until it’s too late. No warning signs, unfortunately.

How many of us are in the same spot?

A flawless exterior masking private grief. Or a rotten core that you desperately try to patch. I have both. Neither are satisfactory.

So, “when the kids move out” is more painful than real. It’s a cruel reminder that this lifestyle is temporary and all pretense.

My empty nest feels emptier than ever, and it’s not vacant yet.

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This post was previously published on Medium.

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