When my husband Michael grew distant, I confided in my best friend Anna. She told me I was imagining things, but I wasn’t. Over time, Michael stopped looking at me, our conversations dwindled, and I felt like a ghost in my own marriage. Then tragedy struck. I miscarried, and instead of comforting me, Michael withdrew further. A month later, he told me flatly, “I’m not happy anymore.” Soon after, Anna—my maid of honor, my “sister”—blocked me everywhere. The truth eventually surfaced: they were together, flaunting their romance online while I was still married to him.

The betrayal shattered me, but I refused to be destroyed. I gathered proof of their affair and used it in the divorce. Michael’s recklessness became my advantage. I walked away with the house, financial security, and the strength of knowing he had lost far more than he gained.

Rebuilding wasn’t easy, but life rewarded me for enduring. A year later, I met Daniel—a man who showed me real love. He never dismissed my pain, only reminded me I deserved better. Together, we welcomed a daughter, and for the first time, I felt whole again.

Then fate handed me closure. At a quiet gas station one night, I saw Michael and Anna. Gone was their glamorous façade. Their car was falling apart, their baby cried nonstop, and their credit card was declined. They bickered bitterly, blaming each other for everything.

From my car, I watched, almost amused, as strangers helped push their broken-down vehicle aside. Anna snapped at Michael, her face weary with regret.

Her final words made me smile: “I think Helena got the better end of the deal.” And she was right. I drove home to my real happiness.