When Diana told me she was marrying Michael, I thought I’d misheard her. I was stirring soup in my kitchen when she whispered, “We’re engaged.”
I dropped the spoon. My Michael? My ex-husband Michael?
The same Michael who lied, flirted with anyone in a skirt, and treated me like I was disposable? The same man she once told me I was “too good for”?
I laughed, but it wasn’t from humor. It was disbelief. That day, I lost my husband and my best friend in one blow.
Whispers followed me everywhere. Had they been seeing each other all along? I didn’t know, and honestly, I didn’t want to. I buried myself in work, adopted a dog, and tried to stitch my life back together.
Then came their wedding. Against all logic, I went. Maybe to prove I was “over it.” Maybe because some part of me wanted to see for myself. I watched Diana walk down the aisle in white lace, radiant as ever, and Michael waiting with that easy smile he once used on me. I slipped out before the reception started, promising myself I was free.
But freedom isn’t that simple.
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