**MY BEST FRIEND’S VOICEMAIL WAS ON MY HUSBAND’S PHONE**
I was cleaning the kitchen when I heard his phone buzz. It was a voicemail notification, and the name on the screen was *Sarah*. My best friend. My stomach dropped. I picked it up, my fingers trembling, and hit play. “Hey, babe, just checking in. Call me when you’re free. Love you.” Her voice was soft, familiar, but the words felt like a knife.
I stared at the phone, my mind racing. How many times had they talked? How long had this been going on? I confronted him the moment he walked in. “What’s this?” I demanded, shoving the phone in his face. He froze, his eyes darting to the screen. “It’s not what you think,” he stammered, but his voice cracked.
“Then explain it,” I snapped, my voice shaking. He hesitated, and that’s when I knew. The silence between us was deafening, the air thick with betrayal.
Then his phone buzzed again. It was her.
*Full story continued in the comments…*He didn’t reach for the phone. He didn’t deny it. He just stood there, shoulders slumped, the weight of the world suddenly on his frame. The phone buzzed again, and this time, the notification displayed a new message, not a call. My fingers tightened around the phone he had failed to retrieve, and I tapped the notification. It was a text.
“Still can’t wait to see you tonight. Dinner at the Italian place?”
My vision blurred. The Italian place. That was our spot. The one we went to every anniversary. The one where we shared our first kiss. The ground felt like it was tilting beneath my feet.
“I… I’m so sorry,” he finally choked out, his voice barely a whisper. He started towards me, but I flinched, recoiling from his touch. The look of utter defeat on his face was almost unbearable, but the hurt, the rage, the crushing sense of betrayal, were far more powerful emotions.
“Don’t,” I said, my voice cold and flat. “Don’t even come near me.”
I walked past him, grabbing my coat and keys. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew I couldn’t stay in that house, in that moment. I drove, the tears streaming down my face, blurring the streetlights into streaks of color.
Days turned into weeks. I moved in with my sister. We talked about it, Sarah and I, the friendship ending in a blaze of acrimony and heartbreak. My husband and I eventually sat down and talked and it was a messy divorce with a lot of shouting and pain.
Months later, after the dust settled and the legal battles were finally over, I found myself in a quiet little Italian restaurant. The scent of garlic and basil filled the air, the gentle clinking of silverware a soft soundtrack to my solitude. The past was not forgotten, but now it felt like a chapter closed, a painful scar that was slowly beginning to fade.
As I sat there, nursing a glass of wine, my phone buzzed. I almost didn’t look, still a little wary of the digital world, but I reached for it anyway. It was a message from my sister.
“Saw this place. Thought of you.” There was a photo attached: a picture of the exact same restaurant I was sitting in. Underneath, she had typed, “Here if you need me.”
A small, sad smile touched my lips. I was alone, yes, but I wasn’t isolated. I had survived. I would continue to do so. And maybe, someday, I would be ready for another chapter. Maybe I would be ready to share a meal with someone again, the taste of hope a new and different flavor on my tongue.