Dear Abby’s column has always been a mirror of human vulnerability. People write to her not because they want a lecture, but because they need someone to witness the messy middle of their lives—the place where love, duty, and self-respect are tangled. Readers come to her with confessions, with exhaustion, with the kind of problems they cannot tell their friends because they are ashamed of how complicated it has become. Two recent letters illustrate this beautifully and painfully. In the first, a wife in Texas has spent more than twenty years living in the shadow of her husband’s affair. In the second, a married man in the East is trying to extricate himself from a relationship with a coworker who has become emotionally dependent on him. On the surface, these stories seem unrelated. One is about betrayal that has invaded a home; the other is about compassion that has turned into a trap. Yet both writers are asking the same fundamental question: How much of myself am I required to give before I am allowed to say no? Abby’s replies are short, but they carry a lifetime of wisdom. She tells the wife to call a lawyer and the man to back away. The advice may sound hard, even cold, but it is actually the most humane response possible. It recognizes that boundaries are not acts of selfishness. They are acts of survival. When we humanize these two dilemmas, we see ourselves in them—the exhausted caretaker, the wounded spouse, the person who has been slowly erased by someone else’s demands. And we see that the hardest word to say is often the most necessary: enough.
Consider the wife in Texas first. She calls herself “losing my mind,” and who wouldn’t be? More than twenty years ago, her husband, Dirk, cheated on her. Instead of ending the marriage or doing the hard work of rebuilding trust, he stayed in contact with the other woman for decades. That alone is a form of ongoing betrayal. Then, sixteen months ago, the other woman announced she was in a “bad place.” Dirk offered to let her move into their home—the home he shares with his wife. He did not discuss it. He did not ask. He simply informed his wife two weeks before the woman arrived. The woman is married herself, but that did not stop her from accepting the invitation. Now she lives in a filthy room, has broken several of the wife’s possessions without paying for anything, and owes the wife nearly $5,000 for dental work that Dirk pushed for and the wife paid for on her credit card. The woman has paid back only $510. She has a job, so the debt is not a matter of inability; it is a matter of disrespect. The wife asked her to leave once, but Dirk convinced her to come back. He refuses marriage counseling because he doesn’t think they need it. When asked why he keeps the woman around, he says he enjoys her company. The wife says she isn’t worried about a physical affair because the other woman hasn’t “maintained her looks or figure” over the years. That detail is devastating. It shows how the wife has learned to measure her own safety: as long as the other woman is no longer attractive, the wife tells herself, the marriage is safe. She has reduced a human relationship to a contest of appearances because that is the only way she can feel secure. But the real problem is not the other woman’s appearance. The real problem is a husband who has repeatedly chosen another woman’s comfort over his wife’s dignity. The wife is not asking for romance or passion. She is asking for basic respect in her own home, and she isn’t getting it. She has tolerated so much that she has begun to doubt her own perception, wondering whether she is being unreasonable. She is not. She is being used.
Abby’s reply to the wife is short but decisive: she should have left long ago, and she should call a lawyer immediately. Abby also offers a practical caution. Since the other woman is not a physical threat, the wife should resist the urge to move out until she has her attorney’s approval. This is not about telling her to stay in a miserable situation; it is about helping her leave in a way that protects her legally and financially. In many divorce proceedings, a spouse who voluntarily leaves the marital home can weaken their claim to the property, or be accused of abandonment, or lose leverage in negotiations. Abby is telling her to be smart, not passive. The wife has already sacrificed enough; she shouldn’t sacrifice her legal standing too. She may need to gather financial records, secure important documents, and think carefully about her next steps. The husband has made his priorities clear. He invited a former mistress into the family home, allowed her to destroy property, allowed her to run up thousands of dollars in debt, and then told his wife that he enjoys the other woman’s company. He will not go to counseling because he doesn’t think there is a problem. That is not a man who is confused or conflicted. That is a man who is comfortable. He has created a household where his needs are met and his wife’s needs are ignored. The wife’s instinct to “let it go” is understandable—after so many years of disappointment, fighting can feel exhausting, and sometimes numbness looks like peace. But letting go does not mean staying in a situation that slowly erases her dignity. It means letting go of the hope that he will suddenly become a different person. It means accepting that she cannot fix him, cannot fix the marriage, and cannot fix the woman who moved into her home. What she can do is protect herself. A lawyer can help her sort out the finances, the house, and the future. Her husband may not be willing to fight for the marriage, but she can fight for herself.
The second letter comes from a man in the East who is caught in a quieter kind of tangle. He became close to an attractive, younger coworker last year. At first, it was probably just a work friendship—a little flirtation, a little attention, a little excitement in an otherwise ordinary life. But soon he realized he was developing a crush. To his credit, he did the responsible thing. He told her he needed to stay away because of his feelings. He was married, he said, and couldn’t risk losing his family. That took courage. It also caused pain. The coworker went through a hard time after the breakup, and she later did something she regrets so deeply that it has affected her work and alienated nearly everyone she knows. The only person she has left is him. They started getting close again, perhaps because he felt guilty, perhaps because she was desperate, perhaps because neither of them knew how to let go. Now she is depressed and, in his words, “killing herself slowly.” He has encouraged her to get professional help, but her emotional state is very draining. He no longer wants to be around it, but he doesn’t know how to tell her without feeling guilty. He is afraid of turning his back on someone who is begging for help. This man is not a monster. He is someone who tried to do the right thing and then got pulled into a role he was never trained for—therapist, rescuer, emotional support animal. He worries that if he leaves, she will collapse entirely. But staying has already cost him peace of mind and threatens the family he wanted to protect. The coworker’s pain is real, but so is his exhaustion. You cannot pour from an empty cup, and you cannot save someone who is drowning if you are drowning too. His guilt is not proof that he is doing the right thing; it is proof that he cares. But caring can become another way of losing yourself.
Abby’s answer to this man is a master class in compassionate boundaries. She tells him to reiterate, firmly but as kindly as he can, that she needs professional help for her depression. If she balks, he should explain that her emotional state has pushed away friends and coworkers and that he is not equipped to provide the support she needs. Then he should learn from the experience and back away. That may sound cold, especially when a person is in crisis, but it is actually the most honest form of care. When someone is drowning, a friend who jumps in without a rope can be pulled down too. The coworker needs a licensed therapist, not a married man who is already conflicted, already guilty, and already running on empty. His presence has not healed her; it has only kept her tethered to someone who cannot be her solution. By staying, he is enabling a cycle of dependency. By leaving, he is saying, “I care about you enough to insist you get real help.” If he genuinely believes she may harm herself, he should not hesitate to call emergency services or involve her family. That is not an overreaction; it is an appropriate response to a real danger. But if the situation is not that acute, he must allow her to face the consequences of her choices. She has already lost friends and coworkers because of her emotional state. He cannot be the sole exception forever. This will not be a single conversation; it may require repeating. She may be angry. She may cry. He may have to hold his ground more than once. But boundaries are not betrayals. They are the walls that keep love from becoming destruction. It is okay for him to say, “I am not your therapist. I am not your lifeline. I am a married man who made a mistake and wants to go home.” He can be kind without being consumed. In fact, the kindest thing he can do is give her the truth: she needs help he cannot provide.
Taken together, these two letters are about the same quiet crisis: losing ourselves in someone else’s story. The wife in Texas is not really asking how much more she should take; she is asking someone to give her permission to take herself seriously. The man in the East is not really asking how to break away; he is asking how to forgive himself for not being enough. Abby’s answers both come back to the same truth: we cannot fix people who do not want to be fixed, and we cannot save relationships that only one person is tending. The wife can call a lawyer, protect her legal rights, and build a life that does not include a husband who values another woman’s company more than his wife’s peace. The man can say a final, kind goodbye to a coworker and direct her toward the professionals who can actually help. In both cases, the hardest part is the guilt—the voice that whispers, “Maybe I didn’t try hard enough.” But trying hard is not the same as succeeding. Sometimes the most loving action is to stop absorbing someone else’s pain and let them find their own way. It is okay to want peace. It is okay to set a boundary. It is okay to close the door that should have been closed long ago. When we humanize these struggles, we see that they are not about coldness or abandonment. They are about survival. Dear Abby’s advice is not a rebuke; it is a release. It gives people permission to choose themselves without shame, to accept that love cannot always be enough, and to trust that the empty space left behind by a difficult goodbye is not a void—it is room for healing.
