Why I Was Always the Second Choice: My Story as the Other Woman in America

“You’re not picking up again, Emily. Are you with her?”

The words flashed across my phone screen at 2:17 AM, a text from Mark’s wife, Lisa. My hands trembled as I stared at the message, the blue light illuminating the tears already welling in my eyes. I was sitting alone in my tiny apartment in Chicago, clutching a mug of cold coffee, replaying every decision that had led me here. How did I become this person—the other woman, the secret, the shame?

It started innocently enough, or so I told myself. Mark was my boss at the advertising agency—charismatic, sharp-witted, with a smile that made you feel seen. He noticed me when no one else did. After my divorce, I was invisible to most people, but not to him. He’d linger by my desk, ask about my weekend, laugh at my dry jokes. One late night after a pitch meeting, he offered to walk me to my car. The city was buzzing with summer heat and possibility.

“Emily, you’re different,” he said, his voice low. “I wish I’d met you sooner.”

I knew he was married. Everyone did. His family photos were all over his office—two kids with gap-toothed grins, a wife who looked like she belonged in a J.Crew catalog. But in that moment, it felt like we were the only two people in the world.

The affair began with stolen glances and late-night texts. Then came hotel rooms and whispered promises. He told me he loved me. That his marriage was over in everything but name. That he’d leave her—soon, just as soon as the kids finished their school year, or after his mother’s surgery, or when work calmed down.

I believed him because I needed to believe in something. After my ex-husband left me for someone younger, I’d built walls around my heart. Mark scaled them with ease.

But secrets have a way of festering. The guilt gnawed at me every time I saw Lisa’s name pop up on his phone or heard his daughter’s voice on speaker as we lay tangled in hotel sheets. I started to hate myself for loving him.

One night, after another canceled date (“Sorry, Em, family emergency”), I called my best friend Sarah.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” she asked bluntly. “You deserve more than someone else’s leftovers.”

I snapped at her—told her she didn’t understand. But her words echoed in my mind for days.

The breaking point came on Thanksgiving. Mark promised he’d come by after dinner with his family. I cooked for hours—turkey, stuffing, pumpkin pie. I set the table for two and waited as the hours ticked by. Midnight came and went. My phone stayed silent.

The next morning, he texted: “Sorry. Couldn’t get away.”

I threw the untouched pie in the trash and sobbed until my chest ached.

A week later, Lisa showed up at my office. She looked tired but composed.

“I know about you,” she said quietly in the hallway. “I just want to know—did he ever say he loved you?”

I couldn’t speak. The shame was suffocating.

She nodded slowly. “He’s done this before. You’re not the first.”

That night, I confronted Mark.

“Was any of it real?” I demanded.

He looked away. “I care about you, Em. But I can’t leave them.”

The truth hit me like a punch to the gut: I was never going to be more than a secret.

I ended it that night. The days that followed were a blur of grief and self-loathing. My friends tried to comfort me, but their pity only made me feel worse.

Months have passed now. Sometimes I still wake up reaching for my phone, hoping for a message that will never come. Sometimes I see Lisa’s face in crowds and wonder if she ever found peace.

I’m trying to forgive myself—to believe that I’m worthy of love that doesn’t come with conditions or lies.

But some nights, when the city is quiet and loneliness creeps in, I wonder: Was it all just a cruel lesson? Or is there still hope for someone like me?

Would you have done anything differently? Or are we all just searching for love in the wrong places?