After twelve years of marriage, my world shattered the day Mark and I divorced. I was broken—confused, raw, and lost. Ava, my best friend since college, opened her door and her heart. She let me crash on her couch, cried with me, cooked for me, and slowly helped me piece my life back together. She became my anchor when everything else fell apart. Eight years passed. Time did its quiet healing, and I rebuilt myself—stronger, wiser. Then, out of nowhere, I ran into Mark at a grocery store. He looked older but wore the same smug expression. With a cruel smirk, he asked, “Still friends with Ava?
I slept with her.”His words hit like a punch. At first, I thought he was lying—just trying to hurt me. But when I asked Ava, her silence said everything. Then came the confession: it had happened once, years ago, right after our divorce. A mistake, she said, in a moment of pain and confusion. She didn’t tell me because she didn’t want to cause more damage—because she thought I wouldn’t survive it then. And maybe she was right. I felt gutted. Betrayed not just by an ex,