And through it all, there was Anna—my best friend since high school, my confidante, my sister in everything but blood. She had been by my side for every major milestone, including my wedding day, where she stood as my maid of honor, holding my hands and crying happy tears.
So, when I found out I was pregnant, I thought it was just another beautiful chapter in our love story.
Then, Michael changed.
At first, it was barely noticeable—working late, smiles that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Then it grew worse. He withdrew, barely speaking to me. Our conversations became strained, and at night, he turned away from me in bed, as if I wasn’t even there.
I was exhausted, carrying the weight of pregnancy and a marriage that felt like it was crumbling.
I confided in Anna.
Late one night, I sobbed into the phone, desperate for answers. “I don’t know what’s happening. It’s like he’s already gone.”
Anna’s voice was calm, reassuring. “Hel, you’re overthinking it. He loves you. It’s just stress.”
I wanted to believe her.
But the stress—the anxiety, the loneliness of sharing a home with someone who no longer looked at me the same way—was eating me alive.
Then, one morning, a dull ache in my stomach grew into something worse. By evening, I was in a hospital bed, hearing the doctor’s words but unable to process them.
No heartbeat. No baby.
Grief is said to come in waves, but mine felt like an avalanche, crushing me beneath its weight.
Michael? He was already gone. He sat beside me in that sterile hospital room, cold and distant. His hands never reached for mine, no words of comfort left his lips. It was as if he was waiting for an appointment to be over rather than mourning our child.
A month later, he finally voiced what had been hanging in the air between us.
“I’m not happy anymore, Helena.”
That was it. No emotion. No guilt. Just a hollow statement, void of any regret.
The day he left wasn’t filled with screaming or accusations. It was worse—it was cold, detached.
“I don’t feel the same anymore,” he said, rubbing his temples like this was just another inconvenience.
“A while?” My throat tightened. “Since the baby?”
His jaw clenched. “It’s not about that.”
A blatant lie.
“So, five years, and you’re just done?” I whispered, my fingers curling into fists beneath the table.
“I don’t want to fight, Helena,” he sighed.
I let out a hollow laugh. “Oh, so now you care about what I want?”
He grabbed his keys, indifferent. “I’ll be staying somewhere else for a while.”
Then, he was gone.
Anna was next. My best friend, my rock—she disappeared. She stopped answering my calls, ignored my messages. Then one day, I realized she had blocked me on everything—Facebook, Instagram, even my phone number. She had vanished without a word.
I was confused—until I wasn’t.
My mother was the one who discovered the truth. One evening, she called, her voice hesitant.
“Sweetheart, I need you to check something.”
She sent me a link to Anna’s Instagram.
And there they were.
Michael and Anna, wrapped in each other’s arms, grinning on a sunlit beach. His lips pressed to her temple, her head thrown back in laughter.
I scrolled, my hands trembling. Post after post—romantic dinners, ski trips, candlelit evenings. They had been living this life while I was still married to him.
The betrayal burned like acid, but I refused to crumble.
Michael had been careless, lost in his fantasy, leaving behind undeniable evidence of his affair. And I used it. In the divorce, I walked away with the house, half of his money, and the satisfaction of knowing he’d have to start over from scratch.
He took my trust, but I took what I was owed.
Starting over was hard. There were nights when I lay awake, wondering if I would ever feel whole again. If love was something I could ever believe in.
Then, I met Daniel.
Daniel was everything Michael wasn’t—kind, patient, unwavering. He listened when I spoke about my past, about my miscarriage, about the betrayal that had nearly broken me. And he never made me feel like I was too much.
“You deserved so much better,” he whispered one night, holding me close.
For the first time in years, I believed it.
We built a real life together—not the kind that existed for show on social media, but something real and solid. And soon, we welcomed a beautiful baby girl into our world—a little girl with my eyes and his smile.
For the first time in a long time, I had the happiness that had been stolen from me.
Then, one night, fate handed me a moment of perfect closure.
I had stopped at a nearly deserted gas station after work when I saw them.
Michael and Anna.
Gone were the designer clothes and the picture-perfect vacations. Their car was falling apart, rusted and dented. The sound of a baby’s cries pierced the air as Anna bounced a tiny bundle on her hip, frustration etched across her face.
Michael stood at the counter, swiping his card. Once. Twice.
“Declined.”
He groaned, running a hand through his unkempt hair. “Try it again.”
“Sir, I’ve already tried three times.”
Anna stormed up to him, bouncing the baby impatiently. “Are you kidding me? We don’t even have gas money?”
Michael muttered, “I told you things were tight.”
“Oh, so now it’s my fault?” she snapped.
I bit back a grin.
Michael kicked the tire of their junker, his patience wearing thin.
Anna let out a bitter laugh. “You swore things were going to get better.”
I watched from the shadows, savoring the moment.
Anna shook her head in disgust. “You know what, Michael? I think Helena got the better deal.”
I turned away, slipped into my car, and drove home—to my real happiness.