Michael’s last night in the hospital.
And Susan was present 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 really happened.
I said only one thing:
“You were right. That was our last picture.”
She left.
It’s been six months since that day.
We haven’t spoken.
She sent me two letters.
I didn’t answer either one.
But the strangest thing is that I still haven’t deleted our last photograph.
Sometimes I open it and stare at our smiling faces for a long time.
In that photograph, I am still the woman who believes that the person beside her is the most loyal friend she has ever had.
And Susan already knows that, within just a few hours, that entire life is going to change.
Sometimes people ask me if I can ever forgive her.
I don’t have an answer yet.
Because betrayal isn’t only about discovering that your best friend had an affair with your husband.
For me, the most painful part was something else.s
For twelve years, every single day, they both had the opportunity to tell me the truth.
And for twelve years, every single day, they both chose to remain silent.
