When I met him it was so out of the blue: I had neither looked nor wanted to find love, but fate had other plans, it transpired. I was married in name, but a carer in reality. My husband was like an empty shell, crippled by depression and had long shut me out . . . if he’d ever let me in. Our children were getting older but still too young and my good friend had just died in a road traffic accident. I felt truly inconsolable that day.

I sobbed that evening while listening to music alone at home, before leaving to visit a nearby pub for a solo toast to my deceased loved one. I sat at the bar, knowing nobody, just listening to the jamming session and for the first time in a long while, feeling like “me”.

Somehow I managed to kick into the person next to me as I moved on my stool, I spun round, smiled, apologised and got talking, to the stranger, a man I would quickly grow to love. He brought colour into my darkness.

I was stunned over a short time by just how well we got on, He loved to write poetry, as I did. He was vegan to my vegetarianism, our humour was as one, our birthdays just days apart. I fell in love and ached to be with him.

Our romance was innocent, chaste although I longed to feel him wrapped round me, to wake with him by my side, all he offered was soft caresses, gentle kisses, and shared bottles of wine.

We met often, my children saw my love. He claimed that he wanted to marry me, but my duties prevented me taking such a bold step — and my children remained a consideration above all others. I promised to leave my husband and he waited until I finally bravely started the formalities only to fail because of a hundred of my excuses. He grew weary of my action-less words.

He left offering friendship only, his love had died as had my hope, leaving an ache in my heart that maybe only time will heal.

Do you have an affair to remember? E-mail your 400-word story to loveaffair@thetimes.co.uk

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