After twelve years of marriage, my world fell apart when I divorced Mark.
In the midst of that pain, my best friend since college,
Ava, stepped in.
She gave me a place to stay,
let me fall apart on her couch, and slowly helped me find my footing again.
Eight years later, I ran into Mark.
With a smug smile, he said, “Still friends with Ava?
I slept with her.”
The words hit like a slap
. I confronted Ava, and she admitted it—
once, in a moment of weakness.
She didn’t tell me becaus
e she didn’t want to break me further. Instead,
she spent years trying to be
the kind of friend who could make up for that betrayal.
I was torn between the pas
t hurt and the love she’d shown since.
Days later, I met her at the park where our friendship had begun.
“I can’t forget,”
I said. “But I don’t want to lose you either.
” Some wounds don’t vanish.
But sometimes, forgiveness lives where trust was once broken—
and grace becomes the bridge between them.