I Was Unexpectedly Widowed at 29. Then I Found Out About My Husband’s Affairs.

I push down the rising panic as my eyes dart nervously back and forth to the group two booths down.

My boyfriend sits next to me, clapping and cheering as our friend belts out a rousing off-key version of “Rocket Man.” Unaware of the circus act in my abdomen, he lets out a hoot as the crowd joins in for the chorus. I’m relieved that he’s occupied. I need a moment to make a plan.

Having had seven months to navigate wildly uncomfortable situations, I have achieved pro status. From battling daily with the mortgage company to smiling politely during well-meaning conversations that make me want to rip my hair out, it takes a lot to outwardly unnerve me these days.

But this situation feels different. There’s no professional boundary here. A knot forms in my stomach as I risk another glance at the familiar face two booths away. I catch his eye and disgust contorts his face. Fear has me pinned to my seat; I’m too afraid to bolt, scared he will grab my arm as I run by, but too frantic to pretend everything is OK.

Because it’s not. Far from it. I’m on a date, staring at my dead husband’s best friend.

The menacing looks are coming from Tim, my dead husband’s old roommate and scuba diving buddy. He looks sloppy drunk and none too happy with my current whereabouts, a mix of perplexed and pissed. I can’t say I blame him; from the outside, I’m a newly widowed woman having fun with a strange man. But Facebook’s “It’s complicated” status doesn’t even begin to explain what I have going on.

I’m not your traditional widow. For one, I’m young, just 29. And my grief isn’t bound in sadness and loss; it’s complicated by anger and betrayal. When Max died seven months earlier, our marriage was in trouble. In fact, I should never have said yes to his proposal, but that ship had sailed two years ago when he got down on one knee. We had one therapy session under our belts and another on deck, but I knew we weren’t going to weather this storm.