Alan and I had been married for seven years. Seven long years that gave me two beautiful daughters, Mia (5) and Sophie (4), and left me with a heart fractured in ways I didn’t know were possible.
At first, Alan was my dream man. Charismatic, attentive, the kind of person who made everyone lean in just a little closer when he talked. He knew exactly how to make me feel like I was the only woman in the world.
But by year five, the shine was gone.
He came home late. “Work trips” stopped making sense. His phone was always face-down, always locked. Then one night, I saw it — a single long blonde hair on his suit jacket.
I’m a brunette.
When I confronted him, he didn’t apologize. He denied, deflected, and gaslit. “You’re imagining things, Lily. Stop being so insecure,” he snapped.
But I wasn’t imagining anything. The cracks were real.
The final straw came when I caught him red-handed with another woman — Kara, someone I’d never even heard of. He didn’t beg, didn’t explain. He just packed a bag and walked out like our marriage was a meeting that had run its course.
He abandoned me and our daughters without looking back.
For a year and a half, I rebuilt my life from the rubble — therapy, late nights working to support the girls, learning how to breathe without that constant ache in my chest.
Then I got news that made my stomach churn: Alan had married Stacey.
My best friend.
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