It was just one night.
It didn’t even mean anything.
But it haunts me.

Three years ago, I was on a work trip in Madrid.
It had been a tough week — deadlines, pressure, constant meetings.
And that night, I drank too much.
Alone at first.
Then not alone.

I don’t remember her name.
I remember the heat.
I remember her perfume.
And I remember the crushing guilt the second I woke up.

I told myself it would never happen again.
That it was meaningless.
That I didn’t need to ruin my marriage over a single mistake.

So I buried it.

I came home.
Kissed my wife like nothing happened.
Washed the shirt that smelled like hotel soap and shame.

And for a while, I believed I could forget.

But it’s still here.
Not on the surface. But under everything.

Every time she tells me she trusts me, I flinch inside.
Every time she says I’m a good man, I feel sick.
Every time she kisses me, I wonder if she’d still do it if she knew.

And then came the baby.
Our daughter is one now.
Beautiful. Perfect.
And every time I rock her to sleep, I think:

I don’t deserve this.

I should have told my wife.
Right away.
But now?
Now it’s been too long.
Now it would destroy her.
Now it would break something we’ve built so carefully.

So I stay quiet.
Smile.
Change diapers.
Make pancakes on Sundays.

And lie.
Every single day.

I don’t know what kind of man that makes me.
I only know this secret lives with me now.
And it always will.