I recently found myself drawn to the acclaimed drama series on Showtime, The Affair, primarily because it aired right after another show I enjoy, Homeland. While I generally gravitate towards thrilling spy narratives, the story of affluent New Yorkers grappling with infidelity hit too close to home for comfort. The character Noah Solloway, a struggling novelist and high school English teacher, felt eerily familiar. On my less-than-stellar days, I see a reflection of myself in him—just swap out novelist for playwright and high school teacher for adjunct professor.
I typically watch television to escape reality. Transport me to exotic locations like Pakistan or the quirky landscapes of Fargo, but please don’t confine me to a Brooklyn dinner party where writers fret over their craft—that’s basically breakfast at my own table. Despite my initial reluctance to embrace The Affair, I eventually became a fan. The show cleverly flips a well-known narrative on its head, showcasing a talent for storytelling that I couldn’t resist.
However, my aversion to the show stemmed from deeper roots. My family has a notorious history with infidelity. It’s almost an epidemic. My maternal grandfather was married four times, with three marriages ending due to his ongoing affairs. One of his divorces was so scandalous that the court records were sealed for half a century, suggesting that the secrets within would make any plot twist on The Affair seem mild. My grandmother, too, was married thrice, with whispers that one of my aunts may not even be her biological child. Conversations around the dinner table often revolve around the question of who your “real” parents might be.
On my father’s side, he remained married to one woman for many years (not my mother, mind you), yet he was frequently unfaithful, reportedly following women he encountered on public transport. I can only guess what transpired on those bus rides; I’ve never met anyone on a bus I wanted to see again, so perhaps it was a different era and my father’s charm was compelling.
While I wish I could paint my mother as the virtuous one amidst this chaos, she had her own penchant for pursuing unavailable, married men. Many of her more notorious affairs transpired before my birth, so I missed witnessing the full extent of these escapades. Before her passing, she attempted to pen a memoir about her romantic life but never completed it. Whether she was unfaithful during her brief marriages is uncertain, but the timelines hardly allowed for much infidelity.
The term “happily married” has always made me uneasy. Growing up in a household where my mother was frequently unmarried yet seemingly content skewed my perception. In my childhood fantasies, I envisioned a family with me and two daughters, devoid of husbands or fathers. Yet today, my life revolves around my husband, Alex, and our happy marriage—a scenario that, in many ways, can be attributed to my mother.
For the last 15 years of her life, my mother resided on a tranquil Greek island, restoring a dilapidated 300-year-old stone house. She invested the modest advance from her never-finished memoir into this project, which became her sole possession. During my 20s, visiting her required a lengthy journey involving a 10-hour flight to Greece, an overnight in Athens, and a six-hour ferry ride. As a struggling actress and massage therapist, this trip was both costly and demanding.
In September of my 25th year, I made the journey out of necessity. I believed I was in love with a charming but errant actor who had portrayed my husband in a summer production. When I shared this news with my mother over the phone, I sought empathy from her, hoping for some understanding given her own tumultuous romantic history. Instead, she offered me a ticket to Greece, courtesy of a new credit card. She insisted that a September getaway would mend my broken heart.
During my visit, I was an awful guest. I cried at breakfast while my mother tried to distract herself with home repairs she couldn’t afford. My emotional outbursts were met with indifference until I stormed off one morning to my favorite beach. There, while listening to Alanis Morissette on my Discman, I was unexpectedly greeted by Alex, a childhood friend who also happened to be on the island. We reminisced and laughed, sharing stories while enjoying the peaceful Aegean.
A few days later, my mother organized a birthday party for me, inviting only men, including two jewelers she found attractive and a Frenchman she had met on a bus. I felt a sudden connection to Penelope from The Odyssey, grappling with multiple suitors while waiting for Odysseus. I had two choices: leave or drink. I chose the latter, downing several glasses of Retsina until I noticed Alex sitting alone. His presence calmed me amidst the chaos.
The bond between Alex and my mother evolved effortlessly. Unlike my previous boyfriends, who she often critiqued, Alex was praised to the point of annoyance. As her mind began to falter, she found solace in discussing literature with him, and I suspect she felt a sense of relief knowing her daughters were settled in love.
In conclusion, my mother’s experiences, both triumphant and tragic, ultimately guided my sister and me toward healthier relationships. She managed to steer us away from the romantic pitfalls she had faced, helping us discover the love she had never quite attained. This journey through familial infidelity has shaped my perspective on relationships, making me appreciate the stability I now enjoy with Alex.
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Summary
This article explores the complicated legacy of infidelity within one family, weaving personal experiences with reflections on relationships and the impact of a mother’s choices on her daughters’ lives. It highlights how personal histories shape perceptions of love and commitment while emphasizing the importance of finding stable partnerships amidst a backdrop of familial chaos.
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