About a year ago, my wife had an affair; six months later, I did too. To be fair, we’ve lived in separate bedrooms for nearly fifteen years, and it has been a sexless marriage since 2010 — the romance had faded long before. Her affair felt like the final nail in the coffin of what once was, yet somehow, we managed to find a kind of peace in the ashes. We’re still friends, still good roommates. We share a long history, a house, a life built on shared years and intertwined finances — and at our age, untangling it all feels both unnecessary and unkind.

Tonight she saw her lover briefly and came home in a cheerful mood. We had dinner together, watched a show on PBS. Later, I helped her make her bed — she’s hopeless with fitted sheets — and we ended up laughing like old companions who have seen too much of life to take it personally anymore. She asked how my girlfriend was; I told her she was fine, just spending the evening with her daughter. And somehow, that small, unguarded exchange felt… human.

I think if we can keep it kind — keep it honest, gentle, and free of hurt — this odd friendship might endure. I no longer have romantic expectations, and neither does she. What remains is a quiet understanding between two people who once loved deeply, and still care enough to wish each other peace.