The loneliest season: life as the other woman during Christmas

A woman who spent years as the other woman says Christmas is the hardest time of year for mistresses. The festive season, with its traditions of family togetherness, can feel like a reminder of what she never fully has, a time when secrecy and absence overshadow the glow of twinkling lights and carols.

In London in her early 20s, she met a man at a Soho bar who seemed to spark a rule-breaking dream. He was charming, attentive, and ordinary enough to seem real, and soon texts multiplied into dates, dinners, and nights that felt like a shared secret. He never told her he was married, and she never asked for a ring or a proof of life at home. The truth arrived slowly, a chilling discovery in a quiet moment at his place: a baby-blue high chair in the corner. He admitted he had been married for five years and that his wife and child were at their second home, a family life that had grown distant but was not over. The revelation did not end their story, but it did set a boundary she could not cross. The first Christmas they spent apart was painful, and the pattern endured for six years—moments of warmth and gift-giving during the year, followed by quiet, empty December days when she faded to the background.

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As years lengthened, the ache settled into a routine. The couple’s calendar never aligned with Christmas; he spent the holidays with his wife and children while she existed in the margins of their glittering, carefully managed life. The glamour—expensive trips, lavish dinners, and attention—was a season’s parade, but the gifts that mattered most did not arrive for her. She would imagine what his wife might unwrap: a necklace, a ring, something that would endure long after the lights went down. The longing was not about material things but the simple, human acknowledgment of existence. The memory of those holidays, with their quiet rooms and lingering cold, persisted long after the month ended.

By her late 20s she had moved to Sydney, hoping for a fresh start. She met Jack at a mutual friend’s dinner party, a spark that felt undeniable, and she allowed herself to fall into the possibility of a real life with him. He spoke of love and a home life and, crucially, of his children. He said the divorce would come, and she believed him when he spoke about a future they could share. She imagined meeting his kids, becoming part of their world. But the truth came late, and with it the same old ache: he wasn’t divorced. The same holiday choreography followed, two separate lives bound together by desire but not by truth. The first Christmas apart—again—found her alone in her small apartment, watching as he celebrated with someone else. He spent on her during the days they were together, but he never bought her a lasting gift as a couple would share. She spent the week imagining the moment his wife opened a necklace or a ring and realized what she, the other woman, could never have: inclusion.

The film Love Actually is a cultural touchstone for many during the holidays. In a pop-culture echo, she recalls scenes where the conspicuous gift to the other woman is juxtaposed with the wife’s day of center stage. But reality, she notes, does not unfold like a rom-com. The wife receives the central gift; the other woman remains unseen, holding onto the memory of sunlit holidays and what might have been, if the life she longed for had ever truly been within reach.

The relationship stretched toward January, as if winter itself could prune the ache away. She tried to preserve the tenderness of what they had, even as Christmas loomed and the loneliness grew sharper. She bought her own gifts, wrapped them, and placed them beneath a tree she kept for herself, a ritual that felt like a quiet act of self-preservation. Friends urged her to leave, asked why she stayed, but the pull of someone she loved—someone who could not fully belong to her—was powerful and terrifying. She did not want to ruin anyone’s Christmas, but she longed for a season where she would not have to play a supporting role in a life that was supposed to be about love and belonging.

As she told the story, the question remained: if she mattered, why was she always unseen when it mattered most? The answer she offered in her own words was not a judgment on others but a confession of pain, loneliness, and the stubborn hope that one day, perhaps, a Christmas could belong to her as well. The piece is told to Carina Stathis, and the name Marlenya Jones is a pseudonym used to protect the author’s privacy.

Dr Lurve, a dating and relationship expert cited in the notes, outlines signs that someone might be the other woman. The indicators help illuminate patterns that can emerge in such relationships: you may be his escape hatch, he may be secretive about you or about your status, his schedule may be rigid, and he may have a history of making promises without follow-through. You may feel unseen or invisible, with little access to his close circle. Deep conversations may reveal only curated details, while brief questions prompt evasive responses. Real love behaves with consistency and openness, not conditions or a constant sense of “updates” about your place in his life. If you’re seeing him online but not in person, if plans fall through repeatedly, or if your intuition keeps warning you something isn’t right, those cues matter. The pattern of a social-media ghost with you, or constant cancellations, can be warning signs that extend far beyond the pages of a glossy holiday brochure. These reflections anchor the larger, more difficult truth: Christmas can be the loneliest time not because one is alone, but because the rest of the world seems to see themselves and their partners in a way that you cannot share.

The unnamed narrator emphasizes that she does not cast blame on others or judge their choices; she speaks to the isolation that can accompany being the other woman. Her story is less a moral tally than a portrait of someone who wanted love and connection while living within a compound of secrecy. The holidays, in her telling, expose how fragile relationships can be when honesty and transparency are sacrificed for momentary closeness. In the end, she seeks not to ruin anyone’s holiday but to claim a season of her own—a season where she could be seen and valued. The narrative closes with a candid reminder that the fantasy of a perfect holiday should not be built on someone else’s compromise or secrecy. As told to Carina Stathis, the piece reflects a lived experience that is all too human, even when it runs counter to the rom-com ideal.