I’m 29, and the betrayal still haunts me.
When I lost my baby at 19 weeks, I thought grief would be the worst thing I’d face. I didn’t know my husband, Camden, and my best friend, Elise, were hiding a secret that would destroy my world.
Camden was steady and dependable. Elise was vibrant, magnetic, impossible to ignore. I trusted them both completely.
Six weeks after my miscarriage, Elise announced she was pregnant — at her over-the-top gender reveal, Camden stood by her side. I watched in horror as they kissed in a hallway. She whispered, “Camden’s the father.” My marriage ended in that moment. Two weeks later, they were living together.
Months passed with no apology. Friends and family split. Elise flaunted her pregnancy online. Camden’s mother even texted me: “I raised a snake.”
Then karma struck. On their first wedding anniversary, Elise’s affair was exposed — she’d been cheating on Camden, claiming her baby was his. Both men believed her. They left her behind, and Camden finally realized what he lost.
Weeks later, Camden confessed in a letter: the baby wasn’t his. Soon after, Elise vanished, leaving the child with her mother. Another lie, another betrayal — possibly involving a third man.
A year later, I’m healing. I’ve moved on, dating someone honest, and I’m just grateful to be free from people I once loved.