Back in 2008, when I was 37 and about 3-4 months into dating the woman who is now my wife, an incident happened that I have carried with me ever since. My neighbor was an 18-year-old college girl who lived next door with roommates. She was a promiscuous girl who threw parties and constantly flirted with me—to the point where I had to move my workouts from the front lawn to the backyard. She would call me 'daddy bear' in a try-hard seductive voice, which I thought was the cringiest thing ever, though I confess I didn't entirely hate the attention.

One night after drinking, while my girlfriend was away in Greece and we were going through a rough patch where I thought we might break up, I went for a jog. The neighbor called me over as usual. Being drunk and talkative, I went. Things escalated quickly; we kissed and went inside, and ended up having sex. But about halfway through, reality hit me like a brick. It felt too weird, she was too young, and I had a girlfriend. I stopped immediately, horrified at myself. She understood completely, apologized for not realizing how drunk I was, and left. I spent the rest of the night sick and vomiting from alcohol poisoning.

When my girlfriend returned from Greece five days later, she was so excited to see me, and our relationship instantly rejuvenated. I chickened out of telling her, convincing myself each time that the timing wasn't right or that there was no reason to hurt her. My best friend and my sister both strongly advised me never to tell her, arguing it would only serve to alleviate my own guilt while devastating her.

Now, nearly 10 years later, we are married with three kids. I am set in my mind that I will never tell her. If there was a right time, it was right after it happened so she could have walked away cleanly. Doing it now would just wreck an entire family over a mistake from a decade ago.