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I Was the Other Woman, and It Was (Almost) Exactly What You’d Expect

All the clichés apply, but I’m still a person.

By Taru Anniina LiikanenPublished 2 years ago 8 min read
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I Was the Other Woman, and It Was (Almost) Exactly What You’d Expect
Photo by Ricardo Gomez Angel on Unsplash

Have you ever noticed you were a cliché? For me, it was when I was having an affair with a married man.

He was much older than me, married with three kids. A charismatic, powerful man who knew exactly what to say to make people do exactly what he wanted.

I was 29, an exotic, long-legged Finnish immigrant with blond hair, visible abs and a tight butt. (No boobs, though. I only grew those after 30, when I gained weight post-heartbreak. Life doesn’t always give with both hands.) I had a college degree and I was studying for a master’s. I was relatively smart, if you compare me with the common stereotypes. But I was dumb.

I was dumb enough to go along with it. I was dumb enough to think I meant something to him. And I was dumb enough to think we had a chance. I didn’t see the situation for what it was. I sensed it would probably end badly, but I thought I would be able to manage it. Not fall for it.

What I didn’t know was how good he was at doing this, and how many times he had done it before. I didn’t know the tactics someone like him would use to lull me into a false sense of security. I didn’t understand he was love-bombing me to get me to trust him and to make me think I was important. And I also didn’t understand that his power position made the whole thing much creepier.

Yeah, I was a cliché. But it’s more complicated than that.

The homewrecker trope

Lately, I’ve been seeing the topic of infidelity pop out again. Monica Lewinsky’s story has been dragged back up from the '90s to make entertainment, and perhaps discuss the whole thing with a bit more nuance. All over the internet, women are sharing personal stories from their past relationships with a cheater.

Within this topic, there’s a lot of variety of opinion, but I do see some common themes. Sometimes, these stories are about vengeance. Others, the woman is happy that now the other woman, who stayed with the cheating man, is suffering. The comment sections, as well, are full of responses from women who congratulate the wife, who is the victim. They’re usually a little bitter, even if there’s a somewhat victorious tone behind them.

A couple of months ago, I read Taylor Jenkins Reid’s Malibu Rising. I’ve loved her previous work, and both Daisy Jones and Evelyn Hugo are iconic characters I wish were real instead of works of fiction. I loved this book, too, except for one detail. It fell for the same trope of the other woman as a unidimensional figure, in this case a competitive, angry person, described as awful at one point.

The other woman is usually young, blonde, skinny and dumb. She doesn’t have much of a personality. She’s either an evil gold digger or a dumb and selfish little girl who doesn’t think about anyone else but herself.

I can’t help but feel disappointed when I read this kind of stuff, because it’s such a simplification of a complex issue involving three people. But it’s always easier to hate the other woman instead of examining the problems in the marriage.

The homewrecker trope is a patriarchal cliché, designed to divert the attention and anger from the man to the woman. It’s a way of putting all the responsibility onto the one person who isn’t responsible for the marriage at all, the person who didn’t make a vow to stay together for better and for worse.

This also happens whenever there’s a celebrity cheating scandal. If a man cheats on his wife, it’s the other woman’s fault. She’s a slut. But the strange thing is that if a wife leaves her husband for another man, she’s the one to blame again. It’s always the woman’s fault.

What it was about for him

When it comes to my affair, I still struggle with deciding what lens to apply to the whole situation. On some days, I still think he really felt something for me and imagined a possible future with me. I remember the beautiful moments, and the way he inspired me, believed in me and didn’t hesitate to say it.

But on other days, I see him as a manipulator, a used-car salesman who was ready to feed me and his wife one lie after another. I see all of the good things he did for me (of which there were many) only as a strategy to protect himself. I remember how he loved seeing us in the mirror together, as if imagining what we would look like as a couple, how others would view us.

Then again, on some days I see him as a coward, an incredibly fallible human who was just too afraid to be who he always wanted to be. On those days, I remember how he always seemed to want a taste of a different life. How he listened to punk music, almost as if he wanted to feel like a rebel despite the incredibly traditional lifestyle he had chosen, or that had been chosen for him. I was another reality he was trying on, like a new shirt. He just couldn’t bring himself to choose it.

I think all of these answers are partially correct. We’re all complex human beings.

I don’t have a reason to believe that he was lying to me about the state of his marriage, though. I’ve seen them together. Anyone who has, knows these two people haven’t had a happy marriage for at least the past fifteen years. They’re both too scared to let go of a relationship that’s making them both profoundly unhappy. There are probably financial considerations, as well as societal ones, Argentina being the Catholic and traditional country it is.

But I will never know for sure.

Why I did it

I’ve tried to analyze why I fell for it, since it didn’t make any sense in my history of good relationships with nice men. I’m not trying to justify my part in the affair, I don’t feel like I need to.

Among the possible reasons, the fact that I was processing my father’s imminent death must have carried some weight. I’ve always been good at choosing men who are the complete opposite of my father, but in this case I went for someone exactly like him. My father was also bitter about the life he had chosen for himself, always complaining about the things he had wanted to do when he was younger. He also lied and cheated to escape the reality he was so unhappy with. I think I must have unconsciously wanted to replace him.

Another possible reason for my lack of judgment was probably that I had recently ended a good six-year relationship with a wonderful, kind man. It may have been a rebellious act to go for someone completely different, or it could have been me punishing myself for leaving my best friend. Or maybe it was just fear of commitment that made me look for an impossible relationship, so I’d never again have to be in a real one.

I don’t know. What I’m sure of is that, like any other person, I have many different levels, some of which are hidden from others, some even from myself.

Should I feel guilty?

In fiction, the only redeeming quality a mistress can have is remorse (and even then she’ll never gather much empathy).

I’ve never been sorry for the wife, however, or really felt guilty. I wasn’t the reason he cheated. I wasn’t his first mistress, or even affair number 10. She knows it, but she doesn’t want to admit it.

I think he loves her hanging onto him for dear life, and is a little addicted to feeling like the savior. He loves being the provider people need and depend on. I think she is too afraid to lose the one thing she built her entire life on. They both use their (now adult) children as an excuse, even though the toxic environment at home is probably harming the whole family. There’s a lot of jealousy, a lot of yelling, gaslighting and control. I didn’t destroy a home, much less a happy one.

But I don’t see his wife as a one-dimensional character, because I know I’m not one. Why should she be? I know enough about their family life to understand a little bit where her problems might come from, although that’s not the point of this story.

I’m just glad I got out, really. Whether he’s a good person in a rough situation or a dangerous narcissist doesn’t make a difference. Now that I’m in a good place, I understand he’s dragging too much emotional baggage to ever be ready for a real, honest and loving relationship. If he gets divorced one day, he’ll probably just repeat those same harmful patterns with another person. It would take years of therapy to get rid of them, if he ever decides he wants to.

I did love him, so I still hope they’ll both be happy. But I don’t believe it’s in the cards for this couple. He’ll continue to bury himself in his work and cheat whenever he can, like he has done since the beginning of their marriage. She will try to control him, check his phone, call him every ten minutes and obsessively go through his shirts, smelling them and trying to find lipstick stains. Together, they’ll drag each other down.

But it’s not my responsibility to worry about it.

Was it worth it?

If you want to feel good about the other woman’s suffering, I can tell you you’ve got the ending you were looking for. It was exactly what people tell you when they warn you against having an affair: he will never choose you, and you’re the only one who will suffer, in the end.

I was so heartbroken by the affair that I spent five years alone recovering from it. It was devastating to understand I’d been lied to, and that I would never even have a real shot at a real relationship with him.

Fortunately, I’m over it now. I understand I was holding on to an idea of a relationship that never existed. Just like he was trying on an alternate reality with me, I was imagining another one for myself. As soon as I discovered this, I was able to let go.

And no, I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone.

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This story was originally published by me, on Medium, in a slightly altered version.

Secrets
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About the Creator

Taru Anniina Liikanen

Finnish by birth, porteña at heart. Recovering political ghostwriter. Fiction, relationships, politics, bad puns, popular and unpopular opinions. Occasional dinosaurs, because dinosaurs are the best.

Reader insights

Nice work

Very well written. Keep up the good work!

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  1. Heartfelt and relatable

    The story invoked strong personal emotions

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