The terrible secret I can never tell my husband: I slept with his brother before I met him… and I still get a rush of desire over the family dinner table even 25 years later

This year’s Christmas dinner was the hardest yet; I could barely handle the tension.

When the baked potatoes were handed over to my in-laws’ table, a familiar excitement went through me that had nothing to do with how reliably crispy my husband’s mother makes them.

No, it was the look her son and I shared as our hands touched the dish being passed that made my heart race.

Even after 25 years, that sideways glance still has enough meaning to make my heart skip a beat.

Why? Because it takes me right back to the wild 36 hours we spent getting to know each other – purely biblical – after we started what we agreed on at the time would be nothing more than a carefree night of passion.

All those years, a wedding and two kids have done nothing to take the heat off the memories of the things we did to each other that night that are triggered when he gives me that look.

One Christmas I blushed so hard that I quickly put it down to my hormones, prompting my father-in-law to jump up and turn down the heating.

This would all be fine if the son in charge – James, their eldest, the definition of tall, dark and handsome – was the one I’m now happily married to.

But my husband happens to be the younger boy, Michael – gentler, kinder, sweeter and slightly less handsome. And neither he nor anyone else sitting at that banquet table had the slightest idea that James and I had met more than two years before Michael introduced me to the family.

I still shudder to remember walking into Michael’s parents’ yard one summer afternoon in 2001 and seeing James standing over a barbecue grill, flipping burgers.

I immediately recognized him as the man I had had an affair with during an outing to see a school friend at her university. I was 19, while James was two years older and in his final year.

That night he played guitar in the band that performed at the student union, and afterwards we started talking at the bar.

My girlfriend ended up taking the lead singer home, while I spent the night with James. The next morning I went back to her hallway to pick up my things, but instead of going straight home, I sneaked back to him.

It was clear that James was a player; he didn’t act like he wanted to know anything about me other than what turned me on, which was fine with me. At that time I was young and wild myself; I wasn’t looking for more than a little pointless fun.

When I left his apartment more than 24 hours later, we didn’t exchange phone numbers. This was before social media, so there was no way to snoop into each other’s lives or get back in touch.

When we waved through the window of the train home, I didn’t even know his last name. And I was completely unaware that he came from a city just a bus ride away from where my own family lived.

That would have been the end if I hadn’t met his brother Michael a few years later at the accounting firm where we both started working as interns.

Both 21 and single, there was a spark of instant attraction between us. I’ve since wondered if it was sparked for me, on a subconscious level, by my long-buried memories of time spent with his sibling.

But apart from the sense that I vaguely recognized Michael’s voice – which I later discovered was eerily similar to his brother’s – there was nothing that linked my new friend to the lover I had every reason to believe was firmly was anchored in my past.

Although I see the family resemblance now (they share the same sharp cheekbones and dark eyes), it wasn’t strong enough to hold my attention.

Michael and I quickly got serious. After a few months, he took me to meet his family at a farewell party for his older brother, who was about to spend a year abroad. “You’ll probably like it,” he joked. “Most girls do that.”

He said that James was a bit of a rogue, before confiding that he had always felt a bit dull when comparing himself to him. “I’m not interested in your brother,” I told Michael, oblivious to the humiliation that awaited me. “Only you.”

We were the last to arrive. Upon seeing Michael, James dropped his spatula and walked over from his spot at the barbecue with his arms wide open. I stood transfixed as I watched them embrace each other warmly, wondering if I was imagining the scene unfolding before me.

James then walked past Michael to say hello to me. As our eyes met, I saw the same flash of recognition hit him.

Yet he kept his composure. “Saran!” he exclaimed. ‘I’ve heard so much about you. It’s so good to meet you.’

And in that moment, as he embraced me in the same arms I had once spent the night in, it felt like it had been decided: we would never tell anyone else in the family that we had actually already met.

I felt relieved by his response. These were just the early days of my relationship with Michael, which I really enjoyed. Which we had already felt was far more serious than anything I had shared with other boyfriends, and none of them had taken me home to meet the parents.

If he knew I slept with his big brother, this relationship would definitely implode. Meanwhile, his parents seemed like such nice people. His mother stayed busy around me and made me feel at home. How would she feel if she knew I had both of her boys?

And what would I have said? “Oh, it was just an affair, it meant nothing to either of us.” I doubt she was so eager to make me feel welcome after such a revelation.

Still, I had to know for sure what James was thinking. When he went into the house to get his cigarettes, I followed him in, as if I had to go to the bathroom.

“Oh God Saran, I’m so sorry,” he told me. ‘Should I have played it differently? I didn’t want to embarrass you. Do you want me to take Michael aside and tell him the truth?’

When I told him I thought this would destroy what me and his brother had together, I felt conflicted – I was asking him to effectively lie to his brother.

But James agreed. “He already told me how much he loves you,” he told me. ‘He would be devastated if he knew I had been with you. Let’s pretend it never happened.’

James also pointed out that he would be out of the country for the next year. “It doesn’t have to be awkward,” he said, and I agreed. Actually, we’ve never talked about it since.

And actually, the fact that he wasn’t there – out of sight, out of mind – really made it that much easier to keep quiet about it.

On the way home, Michael congratulated me for being the first girl he’d introduced to James that he hadn’t flirted with. “He needs to realize how much I love you,” he told me, which made me feel terribly guilty.

But not guilty enough to be honest. Of course, I then told some of my friends, who all roared with laughter at the awkward scene I painted.

But their reactions made this feel more like something funny to keep between us, rather than a terrible burden to bear. They convinced me that Michael never needed to know; that it was more kindness than betrayal not to tell him.

Meanwhile, on his travels, James met a girl who tamed him; he then married her and emigrated to Australia to be with her, which made things even easier. It means we only see each other every few years, when he brings his family for special celebrations.

Nowadays it rarely occurs to me that maybe we should have told Michael the truth to begin with. Because as exciting as that short assignment with his brother was, it doesn’t compare to the loving relationship he and I have.

We have a great sex life ourselves, have two great kids, and I love his parents like mine. If I had confessed at any time, all that would have been in jeopardy, and to what end?

But while my rational mind understands all these things, I can’t pretend that the passing years have dulled James’ good looks. And every time his eyes meet mine, like that cheeky look over the baked potatoes, there’s no way to prevent the answering rush of desire I feel.

When Michael notices something is wrong, he never comments. It’s a good job because this is a family secret that I know I’ll have to take to the grave.

Saran Travers is a pseudonym. All names have changed.