I used to think betrayal was something that happened to other people—the kind of thing you read about in gossip columns or dramatic online confession threads. Not to me. Not to us.
For five years, Michael and I built a life together.
It wasn’t glamorous, but it was ours—Sunday coffee runs, inside jokes only we understood, and lazy movie nights on the couch. And through it all, there was Anna.
Anna had been my best friend since high school, my ride-or-die, my sister in every way but blood. She was there for every milestone, including my wedding day, standing beside me as my maid of honor, crying tears of joy as I said “I do” to the man I thought I’d spend forever with.
So when I found out I was pregnant, I thought it was just another chapter in our perfect life.
That’s when Michael changed.
At first, it was subtle—longer hours at work, distant eyes, forced smiles. Then, it got worse. Conversations became one-word responses, and some nights, he’d roll over in bed, turning his back to me like I wasn’t even there.
