I recently stumbled upon a show on Showtime called The Affair, a Golden Globe-winning drama that caught my attention after Homeland. While I usually gravitate towards spy thrillers, I found myself less intrigued by the lives of affluent New Yorkers struggling with fidelity issues—especially since I’m a New Yorker myself. The show felt uncomfortably familiar. The central character, Noah Solloway, is a failed novelist and high school English teacher. On my worst days, I see myself as a female version of Noah—just swap out novelist for playwright and high school teacher for adjunct professor.
I watch television to escape reality; I’d rather venture to exotic locales like Pakistan or Nashville than endure a dinner party in Brooklyn filled with writers fretting over their latest works—after all, that’s just an everyday breakfast conversation in my home. I tried to resist liking The Affair, but it was a losing battle. (I now count myself among its fans; the show skillfully flips a too-familiar narrative on its head.) However, my initial reluctance came from a deeper place.
My family has a notorious reputation for infidelity. It’s practically an epidemic. My maternal grandfather was married four times, with three of those unions ending due to his affairs with future spouses. One of his divorces was so scandalous that the court records were sealed for 50 years, suggesting some wild escapades that would likely make the drama in The Affair seem mild. My maternal grandmother also had three marriages, and there are whispers about one of my aunts being the product of a different father. Family dinners on my mother’s side often involve speculation about who your real parents might be.
Meanwhile, my father, though married to a different woman for many years (not my mother), was notoriously unfaithful. He was rumored to have followed women home from the bus, and while I can’t imagine what transpired during those rides, I suspect it was a different era when charm and good looks could work wonders.
I wish I could say my mother was an exception in this lineage of infidelity, but she had a penchant for pursuing unavailable, married men. Many of her affairs took place before my time, so I missed witnessing the fallout firsthand. Before her passing, she attempted to write a memoir about her romantic escapades, a project she never completed. I doubt she ever strayed during her short marriages, as they barely lasted long enough for anything to develop.
The phrase “happily married” has always made me uneasy. Growing up, my mother was often single yet seemed genuinely content. As a child, I envisioned my future filled with two daughters and no mention of husbands or fathers. Yet, in reality, my closest family now includes my husband, Mark. We share a happy marriage, and in many ways, I credit my mother for that.
For a significant portion of her life, my mother resided on a picturesque Greek island, restoring a dilapidated 300-year-old house. She invested the modest advance she received for her unwritten memoir into this restoration project, which became her sole possession. For much of my twenties, visiting her required a 10-hour flight to Greece, followed by a night in Athens and a six-hour ferry ride to her rocky paradise. This was quite the financial burden for a struggling actress/massage therapist.
In September of my 25th year, I made the journey out of necessity. I was infatuated with an actor from a summer production, who turned out to be a drunk and a cheater. When I called my mother to share this news, I hoped for some sympathy. Instead, she promised me a plane ticket—thanks to her new credit card. She insisted that September in Greece would mend my broken heart.
As a houseguest, I was less than gracious. I sobbed during breakfast while my mother pretended not to notice, humming to herself and pointing out the many repairs her house needed. After a particularly grim meal, I accused her of being unsympathetic and fled to my favorite beach.
While I was sitting on a rocky outcrop, lost in my thoughts and listening to Alanis Morissette, someone tapped my shoulder. It was Mark. We had known each other since childhood; his family had similar dreams of building a home in Greece. We dove into the sea and reminisced about our childhood adventures. Later, at a beachside taverna, he told me he had bumped into my mother, who had asked him to find me and offer comfort. She had thrown her hands up in exasperation, admitting, “I’m hopeless with the depressed!”
A few days later, my mother organized a birthday party for me, borrowing a completed house for the festivities. She only invited men, assuming they would brighten the gathering. The guest list included two local jewelers whom she deemed “devastatingly handsome,” a Frenchman she met on a bus because of his “terrifyingly blue” eyes, and a bank teller who spoke better English than anyone else. She even considered inviting the island garbage man due to his impressive dancing skills.
In that moment, I felt a wave of sympathy for Penelope from The Odyssey. How stressfully she must have navigated her suitors while Odysseus was away. I pondered my own choices: leave or drink. I opted for the latter, downing several glasses of Retsina, until I noticed Mark sitting alone. His smile brought me comfort, and he gifted me a small malachite box containing an uncut garnet he found on the island. As I held the stone, I felt courageous and playful, slipping off my flip-flop to play footsie with him under the table. His reaction was electric.
In a surprising burst of confidence, Mark stood up and declared, “The party is over! Everyone needs to go home. Immediately!”
One of the joys of my married life is how well Mark and my mother connected. Despite her history of poor romantic choices, she was always complimentary about him. She would often say, “He has such a fine mind,” as if she were trying to make up for past mistakes. As her own mental faculties began to fade, she would engage Mark in discussions about literature.
I often wonder if my mother found peace in knowing that her daughters found love. My sister, Lucy, married one of my mother’s closest friends, steering us both away from the romantic pitfalls that plagued her. Instead of focusing on regrets, she used her experiences to guide us towards the happiness she never fully grasped.
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In summary, while my family may be marked by a history of infidelity, I have found my own path to happiness and love. My mother’s legacy, despite its flaws, has guided me towards a fulfilling marriage with Mark, who embodies the qualities she longed for in a partner.
Keyphrase: Family Infidelity
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