For five years, Michael and I built what I thought was a strong, loving marriage. We had a simple but beautiful life—lazy Sundays on the couch, inside jokes that only we understood, and the kind of quiet, everyday love that felt secure. And through it all, my best friend, Anna, was always there—my rock, my confidante, the sister I never had.
But something in Michael shifted. At first, it was small things—staying late at work more often, distracted replies, a lack of warmth in his eyes. Then, it became undeniable. He barely looked at me. Conversations turned into awkward silences. At night, he rolled over without a word, as if the space between us was intentional.
So I turned to Anna.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” I sobbed over the phone, curled up on the couch while Michael sat in the next room, completely indifferent. “It’s like he’s already gone.”
I wanted to believe her. I needed to believe her.
But no matter how much I tried to push the doubts away, the loneliness, the tension, and the sinking feeling in my stomach never faded.
One morning, I woke up with a strange pain in my stomach. By the time evening came, I was lying in a hospital bed, staring at the ceiling while a doctor spoke in a soft, careful tone.
There was no heartbeat.
No baby.
But Michael? He was already gone.
He sat beside me in the hospital, silent and cold. He never held my hand, never comforted me. He barely even looked at me. It was as if the miscarriage had given him permission to detach completely.
And a month later, he did.
That was all he said.
No explanation. No apologies. Just an emotionless confession, like he was checking something off a list.
I stared at him across the kitchen table, my chest tightening. “What?” I whispered, barely recognizing my own voice.
A lump formed in my throat. “Since the baby?”
It wasn’t about the baby? That was a lie.
But instead of arguing, I just sat there, waiting for any sign of regret. There was none.
Michael sighed, impatient. “I don’t want to fight, Helena.”
I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Oh, you don’t want to fight? That’s funny because I don’t remember getting a say in any of this.”
And just like that, he was gone.
Anna disappeared, too. She stopped answering my calls. She blocked me on every platform. She vanished overnight.
My mother called me one evening, hesitant. “Helena, sweetheart… I need you to check something.”
She sent me a link to Anna’s Instagram.
Michael and Anna, arms wrapped around each other, laughing on a beach like they hadn’t destroyed someone to get there.
The pictures had been posted for weeks. While I was still legally married to him. While I was still grieving.
Michael had left, believing he could walk away without consequences. But he had underestimated me. He had left behind a trail of proof—messages, bank statements, undeniable evidence of his affair.
By the time the divorce was finalized, I had the house, half of our savings, and the satisfaction of knowing he had to start from scratch.
And a year later, I met Daniel.
He was kind. Gentle. When I told him everything, he didn’t flinch. He just held me close and whispered, “You deserved so much better.”
Then, three years after my world had fallen apart, I walked into a gas station and saw Michael and Anna again.
Their car was barely holding together, rusted and beaten down. Anna looked exhausted, rocking a screaming baby while Michael stood at the register, swiping his card.
Declined.
“Sir, I’ve tried it three times.”
“I told you things are tight,” Michael muttered. “Maybe if you stopped spending so damn much—”
Anna laughed bitterly. “Sure. Just like you ‘weren’t’ cheating on Helena, right?”
“Need a push, man?” one man asked, his tone impatient.
With an exasperated sigh, the men pushed the old car aside, leaving Anna standing there, her face flushed with frustration as she juggled the crying baby.
Michael, now looking even more worn out, kicked the side of the car. “This is your fault, you know.”
She turned to him, her voice dripping with resentment. “You want to know the truth, Michael?”
Michael crossed his arms, rolling his eyes. “Oh, this should be good.”
Anna let out another humorless laugh, her voice laced with exhaustion. “I think Helena got the better end of the deal.”
Then, with a smile tugging at my lips, I got into my car, started the engine, and drove away—towards my real happiness.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
