My Mother’s Extramarital Affair

I must have been thirteen. My sister Natasha was fifteen. Mom was in her early forties. My parents didn’t get along for as long as I can remember.

It was in Russia, in the seventies. Like most families we struggle financially. My mom taught English. Dad was an engineer. Work, sleep, and back to work. That's how my parent’s life went.

There were no dream vacations. They might have dreamed about a new winter coat.

They didn’t dream about the impossible, such as a new house or a car. Thinking about such things at that time was pointless, like dreaming about visiting Mars.

Then, my mom got diagnosed with Tuberculosis. They found a small calcified TB granuloma, the size of a cherry pit, at the top of her left lung. She cried when she got the news. I cried too, afraid of losing my mom. They placed her in the hospital for six month, and, after that, sent to a sanatorium for another three.

The sanatorium was like a kids camp. Only they were not kids. They were recovering TB patients. All grown-ups in the middle of the woods. Lots of free time on their hands. Away from their families. That was where they met, my mom and that guy.

He was a bigwig from Leningrad, now St. Petersburg, a widower, single, unattached. I can picture them now strolling between the pine trees, holding hands, laughing, even kissing and all, like in old black and white movies.

An accidental romance away from home. It should have ended right there. Except, it didn’t.

When mom came back, I knew something happened. But what? I would never guess it. Was she more beautiful? Yes! Why? Soon, I will know.

That year, after the school was over, mom sat Natasha and me down and said, “Girls, we are going to Leningrad! For a full month! We'll visit all of the museums and palaces. It will be splendid!” I don’t remember how our father was left out from that vacation, but he was.

As soon as we boarded the train, mom dropped the bomb. “Girls,” she said, “we’ll stay with this very special person, Nikolay Ivanovich, whom I met at the sanatorium.” I knew instantly what that was. Mom didn’t have to say anything more but she added, “Please don’t talk about that when we are back home.” I got sullen right then and there.

Nikolay Ivanovich turned out to be a nice guy. All he did was try to please mom, Natasha and me. Yet, anywhere we went, be it the Hermitage museum or Peterhof palace, all I could feel was shame for my mom.

This man was probably a hundred times better than my dad. Yet, my dad, no matter how much a pain in the butt, was my dad.

I couldn't forgive mom for her betrayal, even though at home I tried to avoid my dad myself as much as I could.

Everything was either right or wrong then. And this was wrong. Mom couldn’t have a relationship with another man while she was married, and to drag her kids into this. Was she crazy?

It took me at least another decade to see my mom as a beautiful, complex woman with needs and desires of her own.

Sorry, mom. Sorry, Natasha. Sorry, for ruining your vacation with my forever sour face.

Mom never left my dad. We came home. Life went on. Nobody told dad anything. The affair gradually dissipated. I think my wise mom knew that that would eventually happen.

Now, my dad is dead. Mom has Alzheimer's. I am sixty.

And, when I think of St. Petersburg, I think of love. I think of mom, her long and difficult life with my dad, and how this city made her happy.

I love you, mom.