After twelve years of marriage, my world quietly crumbled when I divorced Mark. The loss was heavy, the silence louder than any fight we ever had. In the middle of my heartbreak, my best friend since college—Ava—opened her door and her heart. She took me in, let me cry on her couch, made me laugh again, and helped me piece myself back together. Eight years later, life had moved on. Or so I thought. I ran into Mark unexpectedly—same smug smile, same sharp tongue. And then, casually,
he dropped a grenade: “Still friends with Ava? I slept with her.” I froze. The words didn’t register at first. But when they did, they hurt more than I expected. I went to Ava, shaking, and demanded the truth. She didn’t deny it. She said it happened once, during a low, confused moment not long after the divorce. A mistake, she admitted,
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