When Alex and I got married, it felt like the universe had finally dealt me a winning hand. We met in our late twenties, past the phase of messy dating apps and “situationships.” He was thoughtful, loyal, a genuinely good man. We didn’t have the drama that fueled other people’s stories—we had the kind of quiet, solid love you build your future on.
Even better, our families clicked almost instantly. My mom and his mother bonded over their shared obsession with gardening, Pinot Noir, and reruns of Murder, She Wrote. Before long, they were having weekly lunches without us, trading family recipes and gossip like they’d known each other for decades.
I thought we had it all. Love, peace, and two moms who were thrilled their kids found each other. What could go wrong?
It started with one sentence.
“Ran into Amanda today,” Alex said, dropping a grocery bag on the kitchen island. “She was shopping with Mom. We grabbed a coffee, caught up.”
I turned away from the fridge, a cold orange in my hand. “Amanda… from college?”
“Yeah. Wasn’t planned or anything. Just bumped into each other.”
He said it so casually, like she was some neighbor from down the street and not the woman he dated for four years. The one who broke his heart so badly he didn’t date anyone for nearly a year after. Still, I brushed it off. I wasn’t jealous. I trusted him. And it wasn’t like he set up the meeting—it just happened.
But then came his birthday.Read More Below
