Will G-D Forgive Her?

RAM Q&A is a regular WireNews column addressing questions on Torah, ethics, faith, culture, and the practical challenges of modern life.

In most RAM Q&A responses, the question is shortened or summarised before the answer is given. In this case, however, the letter I received carries an emotional weight and a narrative that would be lost if reduced to a few sentences. For that reason, I am including the full text of the letter, with only minor corrections to grammar, spelling, and flow so that the meaning remains exactly as intended.

The Questioner writes:

Question: “Nearly ten years ago, a chance meeting developed into a four-year affair with a married woman. It has now been ten full years, and even today I am reminded of the fallout from those events.

It began innocently enough, though we were both adults and knew where it was going. After we met, we began daily calls—hours and hours on the phone every day, often multiple times each day. We shared stories of our families, exchanged gifts, and delighted in our long-distance contact as young people in love often do. There were morning messages, daily chats, and constant expressions of affection. It was constant and wonderful.

As video calls became popular, we switched to nightly video calls, two or three hours every evening, gradually moving toward what would eventually happen. We shared everything. We grew close. Desire grew.

After three years of these daily calls, she travelled to my city and we were finally in each other’s arms. We became intimate, which had been a foregone conclusion from the moment our affair began, perhaps even from the moment we first met.

The days she spent with me were like a dream—travelling around the city, going to different places, building memories together and sharing a passion that seemed unstoppable. The trip was too short, and we began planning the next visit before the first one had even ended.

Two more trips to the city followed, months apart, but they were no less passionate and no less meaningful. Yet she always returned home. Each time I invited her to stay, to leave her husband and become my wife, she pulled back. She said she wanted it, and her behaviour left little doubt about her feelings, but the goodbyes at the airport were always inevitable.

Another year passed. My frustration grew as I wondered what she did when she was not with me. In the end, I could not accept her hesitation. She wanted the best of both worlds, and I felt betrayed that she continued her intimacy with her husband.

It ended when she sent me a message. She wrote, ‘It’s not like we have a piece of paper, you and me.’ By that she meant we were not married and therefore I could not demand her exclusivity.

It hit me like a ton of bricks. A piece of paper existed between her and her husband of fifteen years, and yet she was with me.

I ended it.

It did not end well. She desperately tried to keep the door open, but I knew only one way to stop it. I sent an email to her husband and told him everything.

The response was remarkable. He defended her and said to me that I had ‘lost something very good.’ I wondered whether he had known all along. Were they in an open relationship that had been kept from me? What exactly had been going on all those years?

He wrote something that has stayed with me ever since. He said, ‘In times like this, the true nature of a person comes out.’

He was obviously referring to my anger and my decision to expose the affair after four years.

I have thought about this many times since then, because telling the truth and ending the affair was the right thing to do. Yet he seemed to believe that my ‘true nature’—the part of me that wanted to end the affair—was somehow the bad thing.

Even today, I remember what he said, because you cannot push a person to the point of breaking and then blame him for snapping.

I suspect there was more to this story than I ever understood, and I am certain that this woman has moved on to another relationship, perhaps now telling the truth about her marriage.

For my part, I have made תשובה (teshuvah – repentance and return to G-D). I have done what I can and continue to do so.

I wonder whether G-D will forgive her, and I truly hope so, because I still love her.”

RAM: First, it must be said plainly that your question—“Will G-D forgive her?”—reveals something important about your character. After everything that happened, after the confusion, the anger, and the pain, your concern is not revenge or condemnation. Your concern is whether the woman you loved can find forgiveness.

That question itself reflects a heart that has already begun the process of healing.

In Jewish thought, the path of return is always open. The Torah teaches that a person is never permanently defined by a mistake, a failure, or even a serious sin. The door of תשובה (teshuvah – return to G-D) remains open for as long as a person lives. No human being can close that door.

You have already taken an important step. You recognise that what happened was wrong, and you have attempted to correct your own path. In the language of our sages, teshuvah involves recognising the wrongdoing, feeling genuine regret, and choosing a different path in the future. From what you describe, you have already begun walking that road.

But there is another important point here.

Teshuvah is personal. One person cannot perform it on behalf of another. Each soul must make its own return. You cannot make teshuvah for the woman you loved, and you cannot force her to confront her own actions. That is between her and G-D.

However, the same truth that applies to you also applies to her. If she one day recognises her mistakes and turns her heart toward G-D, forgiveness is possible for her just as it is for anyone else.

Judaism does not teach that people are permanently stained by their past. On the contrary, the sages teach that sincere teshuvah can transform even serious wrongdoing into a step toward spiritual growth. A person who genuinely returns can become stronger, wiser, and closer to G-D than before.

You should also release yourself from the burden of trying to untangle every mystery in this story. It is natural to wonder what was happening behind the scenes, whether the husband knew, whether the marriage had different rules than you realised. Yet those questions no longer change the path forward.

Sometimes the mind searches endlessly for explanations because the heart has not yet accepted that the story is over.

The husband’s comment—“the true nature of a person comes out”—may have troubled you for years, but the remark reveals more about the speaker than about you. A person who ends a relationship that he believes is wrong, who speaks the truth after years of secrecy, and who later reflects on his own conduct with regret is not displaying a corrupt nature. He is displaying a conscience.

In truth, the moment when you ended the affair may have been the first real step toward teshuvah.

Finally, there is one more lesson here. Love does not disappear simply because a relationship ends or because mistakes were made. The fact that you still hope for the woman’s forgiveness before G-D shows that your feelings were genuine. Yet genuine love must eventually change form. Instead of longing for what cannot be restored, it can become a quiet hope that the other person will find a better path.

In that sense, your hope is already a kind of prayer.

You cannot determine whether she will seek teshuvah. But you can continue walking your own path, repairing your own life, and trusting that G-D judges every soul with perfect knowledge and perfect mercy.

The past cannot be rewritten, but the future is always open.

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RAM Q&A is a regular WireNews column addressing questions on Torah, ethics, faith, culture, and the practical challenges of modern life. Each response is grounded in Jewish thought, clarity of reasoning, and respect for first principles, offering considered answers rather than opinion or sentiment. To ask RAM a question email him at rav@rambenzeev.com.