I looked at her.
Thirty-seven years of memories passed through my mind.
Two little girls in a schoolyard.
Our first school dance.
My wedding.
The births of my children.
My mother’s funeral.
Michael’s final night in the hospital.
And Susan was there in every one of those memories.
But now every memory seemed to have two different versions.
The one I had known.
And the one that had actually happened.
I said only one thing.
“You were right. That was our last photo.”
She walked out.
Six months have passed since that day.
We haven’t spoken.
She has sent me two letters.
I haven’t answered either of them.
But the strangest thing is that I still haven’t deleted our last photo.
Sometimes I open it and stare at our smiling faces for a long time.
In that picture, I am still the woman who believes the person beside her is the most loyal friend she has ever had.
And Susan already knows that in just a few hours, that entire life is going to change.
Sometimes people ask me if I will ever be able to forgive her.
I still don’t have an answer.
Because betrayal isn’t only discovering that your best friend had an affair with your husband.
For me, the most painful part was something else.
For twelve years, every single day, they both had the chance to tell me the truth.
And every single day, they both chose silence.
