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There were redundancy problems at work; my marriage was showing strains; and there was something large and unnameable missing from my life.

I ignored it until I could do so no longer, until eventually, for what felt like the sake of my sanity, I resolved to do something about it.

I got to know – or as much as possible online – a couple of regular men, with whom I conducted tentative conversations that were thoughtful and sweet, and that only developed into something more suggestive after much respective vetting and, on my part, several glasses of red wine. That initial separation, I later learned, all but ensured I would never be able to successfully bond with her.

Taking my online affair offline was my big mistake, a transgression too far.

What drew me to the online world was the maintenance of fantasy.

Bringing it to life brought only complications, albeit occasionally exquisite ones.

After a couple of months I had to end it – and it was after I had made this decision that my husband found out.

I met all sorts of people, from all over the world, older and younger, and each seemingly as desperate for a true connection as I. Should I be blaming my mother, or my – mostly absent – father for feeling that something was eternally missing? I was born to a woman that didn't much want children, and who fell foul to postnatal depression a good couple of decades before the term was even coined.

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