Is it a good idea to confront your partner's other lover? When I was at university, I found myself involved with a guy who later turned out to be married.
He also turned out to be an Evangelical Christian (whole other kettle of Ichthys).
Long story short, it all came to a head when I, confused and bruised, decided that I couldn’t let the relationship continue, and so ended it, despite his protestations.
For a number of reasons, it wasn’t easy – I was young, immature, and a part of me thought that perhaps there was something there – but at the end of the day, my brain realised that it was smarter to walk away, and I did.
Then one night, a few days after the last convoluted, emotionally-charged conversation I was to have with the bloke, the phone rang.
His wife was on the line.
I had met her before.
He brought her along to a party I had thrown. It was part goodwill – we hadn’t taken the fling too far and thought a shot at friendship was possible – but also, I think, part desperation, on his behalf and mine. And maybe hers (did she know then something was/had been up?).
At the party, everyone was all smiles. She was really lovely. An outside observer could hardly have suspected a thing. But I swung from profound embarrassment to cold ambivalence and down into green pits of poisonous jealousy. In other words, I was all over the shop. And for a moment, when we found ourselves alone, he tried to be all over me.
Thrilling, dangerous, disgusting; my mental rollercoaster ended with a steely resolve forged by hot shame, and bang, bang, I shot him down, as an air pistol would kill off a leering figurine in a seamy carnival sideshow.
The party ended. They walked through the door, and out of my life.
Or so I thought.
“Kate, it’s me,” she said. “He’s told me some things. I wanted to ask you for the truth.”
I won’t pretend hanging up didn’t cross my mind. I was done with him, what had I to say to her – not my problem, not my problem, not my problem!
But I was brought up to take responsibility for my actions – not to blame, not to deny, or pass the buck.
So I answered her questions as truthfully as I could. No, we didn’t sleep together. No, I wasn’t interested in him. No, he did not utter a word about his wife, about you…
I apologised to her. I didn’t know the full story, and I didn’t want to be any more involved in their private life than I already was, so I didn’t ask questions of my own. She was very calm. Perhaps it had happened before? Only my ego cared about that – and it had no place in this conversation. So, eventually, the conversation came to a close.
She thanked me before she said goodbye.
I never saw either of them again.
Sometimes, I wonder what happened. What our conversation meant.
I wanted to write about this today, because yesterday I read about the other side of the equation.
And not long ago, a friend of mine was in a similar predicament (they were the cheated party too). But while my contact ceased with the click of a phone, they’ve endured all manner of reminders through a social network that simply didn’t exist as it did before Facebook, before you could check out your lover’s lover, and maybe even uncover the whole salacious pixellated history of adultery.
But just because you can, just because you might want to, is it ever a good idea to confront the third party? Should you call, should you message… or should you just block them out entirely?
Read more: http://www.theage.com.au/lifestyle/life/blogs/citykat/confronting-your-lovers-lover-20110908-1jzkw.html#ixzz1XQzn4Amj
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