When I fell in love with a married man

Not all mistress stories follow the same script

This is a love story, and it isn’t. A few months ago, I wrote about an “Uzbek boyfriend.” Some of you requested the story behind it, and here it is.

We met at the gate as we boarded the plane to Zambia, one of those brief chats in line towards the plane. After we landed, my eyes followed him through immigration, hoping he would look back.

To my surprise, he waited outside after customs and handed me his business card.

We spent the next day wandering the streets of Lusaka, a first date that lasted from 1 to 11 pm. He told me about how he ran hospitals and restaurants, and now running a medical business. “I’m going to become the richest Uzbek in Africa.”

My eyes widened. Business is my life. I get energy from someone who spends all waking hours thinking about business. Often, attraction is defined by admiring and respecting how someone thinks and spends time.

‘Love does not consist of gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.’ —Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, author of The Little Prince

“You’re like a star that fell into my life.” I still remember this line from that evening. And that one date was enough for him to invite me to join him on his 25-day business trip to Thailand and China. It was enough for me to accept this invitation and fly across the world.

I won’t go into all the details of the trip, but I’ll share a moment: Once we walked by a skinny Cantonese man selling Cheung Fun 肠粉 (steamed rice noodle rolls) around 2 am, vibrantly calling us to try the best Cheung Fun in Guangzhou. I was about to ignore, but he said with that big smile of his, “Why don’t we eat something and make this guy happy.” I’m not sure why I remember this, but moments like this, I fell for him a little.

Twenty-five days later, on the midnight train across China, he asked, “Do you love me?” I said, “Maybe. Do you?” “Probably.”

Except, he was married.

He never hid that fact. But it wasn’t until the midst of the trip that I found out our definitions of “married but separated” differ. To me, separation must mean a mutual understanding and respect for each other’s private lives. To him, it was a state of confusion where they were still very much, very married. Their 11-year marriage had been rough, but because of their culture, whether a divorce is ever on the horizon is questionable.

A lot of Uzbek cultural practices are essentially equivalent to those of Qing dynasty China—a woman must be a virgin, and on the night of the marriage, one is expected to sleep on top of a white cloth. The next morning, all the aunties from the woman’s family will come and proudly check on the red blob. In such a culture, keeping the family intact is an utmost priority.

Every time I looked at him, underneath was a perpetual sadness, knowing that he had a family of his own. I won’t lie and say that the wife’s feelings were ever my logical concern. But perhaps they showed up in the subconscious: every time I delayed my text response to him, every time I demonstrated little regard for his needs, and every time I tried to “break up”. I held onto a sort of integrity and continued to push away.

Since the first day, I treated this connection as one that would end and lived every day like the last, while he treated it as forever.

His love was different. In the US, one seems to approach love with a bit more hesitation and caution, a need to live together and see each other in every possible situation to be sure. In many Asian cultures (Chinese and Uzbek alike), you fall a bit more quickly, commit to an instinct, and gamble the rest. I do believe love is a willing decision. Once committed, we shape our world in ways that ensure good results.

In the months that followed, he pursued a divorce.

Those months were some of the happiest of my life. Despite him being in Lusaka and me in New York, I woke up every day to his video note. When I came home late after an opera, he stayed up, Zambia time, to ensure that I got home safe. The lingering sadness slowly dissolved, and I began to trust.

Those months were probably some of the darkest and most difficult of his life. Consciously, I wanted his love. Subconsciously, I continued to push away. The times when I went about my life in New York, I ignored his calls and I love yous.

As I slowly opened up, he slowly shut off. Eventually, after all the inner struggles that I couldn’t see, he chose family over this small episode of love. Maybe there was guilt for how much his decision would hurt his two young children, the financial loss of the move, and the fear of potential abandonment by his family and culture.

I was not there for him. Because I didn’t want to be the reason for this decision.

I grew up watching Chinese TV dramas where the 婚外者、小三 xiǎosān (mistresses) are all associated with the worst intentions and definitions. To destroy, to play tricks to win the husband, building plots that would lead to a divorce. I hated that character. Those haunted scenes played in my mind over and over again.

I guess I want to say that not all mistresses tell the same story. To me, family is sacred. I’m not her.

And yet, in the face of responsibility, I became the bad guy.

A few weeks ago, he came to China to apologize. Despite my best intentions to create beautiful memories one last time, I ended up giving him that final push. We fought. I yelled at him, squeezing out every drop of his love for me and throwing them into the abyss. He didn’t budge, “You’re the one who pressured me into getting a divorce. You have no right to ask about my family. You’re just a stranger.”

My love used to symbolize the only source of light in his life. Now it symbolizes a force that almost destroyed his family.

Later I called my mom. When she inadvertently called me xiǎosān, I launched into this rage: “我不是、我明明没有、你不能那么说我。You can’t say that about me. I’m not her.”

When I saw him call his children with the gentlest care, I felt like a sinner. When I found out that he was amending things with his wife, it was a mixture of anger coupled with relief. The anger I showed on the outside, the relief helped me move on. I’m no longer in the middle of this. He’d made a decision.

This time, his eyes lost their brightness, his posture became robotic. I tried to look into his eyes, they didn’t look back. I saw this once before in Chongqing when he thought our relationship was over, and I had the power to bring him back. This time, I couldn’t, nor is it my place to do it anymore.

Did I love him? I did.

I thought that he was the most alive when he had the freedom to pursue his wildest business dreams. Perhaps I was wrong. His best self is when he expresses deep love for his children and when he does all he can to make everyone around him happy.

What made us similar was not the ambition for business, but the fundamental value for the completeness of a family and the do all it takes to protect it.

Mom said, “你们都是好孩子。 You’re all good children.”

The very last night, 当缘分耗到了尽头, sleeping next to him went from a sort of passionate love to the feeling of a long time loveless couple. In the middle of the night, when I couldn’t fall asleep, I turned to him and asked gently, “Can you hug me?” He complained a little for being awakened, but held me nonetheless. I quietly lay in his arms. Tears shed over my face.

Sunset in Lusaka.

Happy Birthday.

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做到了真正的抽离，对得起自己的心

我很高兴能在他迷失自己时陪他走过这一段

也希望他能够真正幸福

谢谢他曾经给了我紧紧被抓住的感觉

这份感谢大于怨恨

现在想到他的笑容、还是会怀念

只希望他能一直笑下去

Thank you to friends from Essay Club and Write of Passage for the feedback and edits: Harrison Ammon Harrison, Claire Butler Claire Butler, Natasha Lee Nat Lee, Michael Dean Michael Dean, CansaFis CansaFis Foote, and Rik van den Berge.