Flair: Serious

When I was 18, I moved in with my aunt and her family. I had just finished high school and wanted to leave my toxic home life. My uncle got me a job with him. At this job most people didn’t speak English well, and I met him. He told me he was 24 (he was 29 going on 30) and admitted he was married. I backed off—until he started flirting constantly.

Any time I talked to other guys, he’d get mad and coworkers would start ignoring me. They adored him. He was controlling even in a “friendship.” I always had to apologize. He never did.

His wife once came into work screaming and looking for me, which made his claims that they were separating and that she was “crazy” seem real. This is terrible to say but he told me he was with her for his citizenship and had to stay. I was young, isolated, and confused. He became my first everything: kiss, “relationship,” sex. He told me sex was necessary in a relationship.

He introduced me to coworkers who were cheating on their partners. We’d party and hook up in rotation at someone’s apartment—not all at once, but it was twisted. He made it seem normal.

He got more controlling: I wasn’t allowed to hang out with people or go anywhere. Over time, he started staying at my student apartment (even though I had roommates). After a couple of years of emotional back-and-forth, I gave him an ultimatum: leave his wife or stop staying with me. He left her and got his own place.

Even then, it never felt like a real relationship. We never touched or acted romantic in public. If we went out, I paid for myself. He gave me cheap thrift store gifts that didn’t fit my style. I felt like he was trying to turn me into someone else.

Sex was awful. If I didn’t finish, he’d say, “All the other girls I’ve had before were able to cum, so it’s your body.” It was always my fault.

He’d silence me when his wife called, even after they’d “separated.” Every fight ended with me being blamed. He told me no one else would want me.

On Valentine’s Day, we had another blowup. I told him I was done. It was late, so I stayed the night. Like always, after a fight, he wanted sex. I told him no.

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TW: SA

He didn’t stop. I remember his body on top of mine. I know I said no because that’s what you’re supposed to do. But I froze. I barely remember anything else.

The next morning, he quietly dropped me off like nothing happened.

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A year later, I finally messaged his wife. I’d wanted to for a long time, but he always said it would “ruin his chances of staying in America.” She was understandably angry, asked questions, and wanted proof—but I had deleted everything.

She also asked if I wanted to report what happened. My therapist at the time advised against it since I had PTSD and no evidence—it might’ve harmed my healing more than helped.

Soon after, I got anonymous messages calling me disgusting and nasty. I’m pretty sure they were from her. His wife eventually flipped, saying things like, “We were still sleeping together while he was with you,” and “He came over all the time.” It hurt—but we were always together unless he was at work. So I don’t know. I blocked them both.

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So… AITAH for being the other woman? Or was I groomed like my therapist says?

I was 18. He was almost 30. I was lied to, manipulated, and made to believe in a fantasy. Even when he left his wife, I was still treated like a secret.

He never apologized. I wrote him a long, emotional message once—and he laughed and said, “None of that happened.”

I’ve learned that not all attention is good attention. Infatuation isn’t love. Love doesn’t make you feel like a piece of meat. Because of this, I’ve struggled to feel like my body is mine. I’ve felt disconnected and ashamed ever since.