Dear Diary,

Today marks three years since my husband left me for my school friend, and I bumped into them at a petrol station. I couldn’t help but smile the entire time.

When Michael began to drift away, I sought comfort in my best friend, Lucy. She insisted I was overthinking things. Turns out, I wasn’t. Fate brought me face to face with the aftermath of their betrayal three years later.

I always believed that betrayal happened to others — something you read about on dramatic threads or whisper about over dinner. But never to me. Not us.

For five years, Michael and I built our life together. It wasn’t lavish, but it was ours — movie nights on the sofa, Sunday morning coffee runs, inside jokes known only to the two of us.

Throughout all this, there was Lucy — my closest companion from school, like a sister to me from the very beginning. She stood by me during key moments, including my wedding, where she held my hands and wept tears of joy by my side.

When I fell pregnant, I thought it was just another beautiful chapter in our perfect life. But then, Michael changed.

It started with little things — he’d stay late at work, and his smile no longer reached his eyes. It gradually escalated. He barely looked at me. Our conversations consisted of one-word replies. At night, he turned away from me as if I didn’t exist at all.

I was lost, exhausted, heavily pregnant, desperately trying to fix whatever had broken between us. That’s when I reached out to Lucy.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” I sobbed over the phone, curled up in the dark while Michael slept peacefully beside me. “I feel like he’s already gone.”

“Helena, you’re overthinking this,” she gently replied. “He loves you. It’s just stress.”

I wanted to believe her.

But the constant tension — sleepless nights, anxiety, loneliness despite being married — was overwhelming me.

Then one morning, I woke up with an aching pain in my stomach. By evening, I found myself in the hospital, watching the doctor’s lips move without hearing a word.

No heartbeat. No baby.

They say grief comes in waves. Mine crashed over me like a relentless tide.

The miscarriage shattered me, but Michael? He was already lost. He sat next to me in that hospital room, cold and silent, never offering his hand, not a single word of comfort. He just waited there like a man waiting for a bus instead of grieving the loss of our child.

A month later, he finally mustered the courage to say the words I felt he’d rehearsed for weeks.

“I’m not happy anymore, Helena.”

And that was it. No explanations, no emotions. Just a hollow excuse.

On the day Michael left, there was no argument, no shouting, no tears. Just chilling silence.

“I’m not happy anymore, Helena.”

I blinked, sitting across from him at the kitchen table. His words pressed down on me like a lead weight.

“What?” My voice trembled.

He sighed heavily, rubbing his temples, as though I were the problem.

“I just… I don’t feel anything anymore. I haven’t for a long time.”

A long time.

I swallowed hard.

“Since I lost the baby?”

His jaw tightened.

“It’s not about that.”

The lie was almost laughable.

I looked at him, hoping for a glimmer of remorse, guilt, any emotion. But he just sat there, staring at the table.

“So, is that how it is? Five years, and you just walk away?” My hands balled into fists beneath the table.

He sighed again, now in annoyance.

“I don’t want to argue, Helena.”

I laughed nervously — the kind of laugh that escapes you when you’re on the brink.

“Oh, you don’t want to argue? Funny, because I had no choice in all of this.”

He stood, grabbing his keys.

“I’ll stay with some friends.”

Before I could say anything else, he slammed the door behind him.

Lucy, my steadfast friend, soon followed suit. She was my anchor, my lifeline. But then, she vanished. Ignored my calls, messages, and eventually blocked me everywhere.

I didn’t understand until the truth finally hit me.

Mum found out first. One evening, she called, her voice tense.

“Helena, dear… just have a look at this.”

She sent me a link to Lucy’s Instagram.

And there they were.

Michael and Lucy. Hugging on a beach, laughing, looking like they’d been in love for years.

I scrolled down, hands trembling. Picture after picture, week after week. Fancy restaurants, ski resorts, romantic evenings by the fireplace. She posted them freely, openly — all while I was still his lawful wife.

The betrayal burned through me like acid. But if they thought I would just crumble, they were sorely mistaken.

I took my pain and turned it into strength. Michael was careless, too caught up in his fantasy to cover his tracks. In court, his infidelity became my trump card. Ultimately, I walked away with our home, half his assets, and the satisfaction of knowing he’d have to start from scratch.

He took my trust. I took what was rightfully mine.

Starting anew wasn’t easy, but life rewards resilience.

A year later, I met Daniel.

He wasn’t just different from Michael — he was everything that Michael wasn’t. Kind. Attentive. He never brushed aside my feelings as if they were too much.

We built a life together — a real one, not a façade for social media. And before long, we welcomed a daughter into the world — my double with his smile.

Then destiny delivered me the finest conclusion.

One evening, I stopped at a petrol station. And there they were.

Michael and Lucy.

But now, they weren’t clad in designer clothes, and there were no happy photos. Their car was a rusted old heap, they were arguing loudly enough for everyone to hear, and a crying child accompanied them, along with an empty bank card.

“Do we really not have any money for petrol?” Lucy hissed.

“You knew we were strapped for cash,” Michael snapped back.

Lucy laughed bitterly.

“I think Helena came out of this situation as the winner.”

I started the car and drove home. To my true happiness.