Everything I thought I understood about my life changed once I got married for twelve years. Mark and I were no longer married. Not only did the relationship end, but so did my identity as a wife, as someone who believed in forever, and as someone who had formed her life around someone who didn’t want to stay. I recall being in our kitchen, which was mine, and holding a mug I had since our wedding. I realized I didn’t know who I was anymore. Being in that house harmed my ears. I became hurt in a way that I didn’t realize was possible. I didn’t eat a much. I didn’t sleep too well. It felt like I was falling down slowly.
Then Ava came.
We had been best friends since we were in school. We lived together in a little, old apartment off campus that had chipped paint and dreams that went on for miles. She knew me better than anyone else. She knew more than simply what brand of wine I preferred and how I drank my coffee. Before my marriage become hard and tragic, she knew who I was. I didn’t even ask her for aid when I told her about the divorce. She just got here. She let me sit on her couch, bought me my favorite ice cream, and embraced me when I didn’t even know I needed one.
She said, “I’m here.” And she was.
I ended up living with her for three months. At that time, she held me. She heard me talk about how unhappy I was. She held me when I sobbed out of the blue. She kept me up late at night by playing our favorite shows over and over again. She taught me how to laugh again. I progressively got back to being myself. I moved into a tiny flat. I acquired a job that I really liked. I learned how to be by myself and subsequently how to appreciate it. Ava was always there for her, powerful, present, and patient.
Eight years went by. Eight years of birthdays, girls’ nights, changing jobs, and growing better. I saw Mark all of a sudden on a Tuesday. He looked like a stranger because I hadn’t seen him in a while. We said things that made us feel bad about ourselves on the sidewalk next to a café. And then, all of a sudden, his face transformed from smug to mean.
“Are you still friends with Ava?” he said as he turned his head.
I nodded slowly since I didn’t understand what they were asking.
He got closer and stated, “I slept with her.”
The world stopped.
It felt like time was folding in on itself. My brain was going a mile a minute, but I couldn’t move. He was lying. He had to be. What made him say that? Why now? But there was something real about the way he spoke to me. It was rough and didn’t care. I turned around and walked away, my legs shaking.
I called Ava that night. I couldn’t breathe until I found out.
I didn’t say hello when she answered. I asked, “What happened?”
The person on the other end of the line didn’t say anything, which spoke a lot more than any words could. Then her voice came through, lovely and broken. She answered, “Yes.” “One time.” A long time ago. Right after you broke up. That was a horrible idea. The most significant thing in my life.
I slid down.
She kept talking, but her voice was unsteady and scratchy. She told me that she had wanted to tell me so many times, but every time she saw how hurt and helpless I was, she couldn’t. She stated she was sorry for what she done, but she was also unhappy about how it hurt our friendship and trust. She promised that every day since then, she had tried to be the friend she hadn’t been that night. Friends don’t do things like that for each other. She was polite to me, helped me, and was there for me. They were acts of forgiveness.
I felt everything at once. Being let down. Sadness. Anger. She felt upset, but not because of Mark. He had been gone for a long time. She was unhappy because of her. The same person who helped me get up also helped me fall.
The next few days were a blur. I couldn’t get to sleep. I looked at pictures of us, read Ava’s old messages, and remembered the evenings we laughed and the days we felt very close. How could these memories still be there after this betrayal? Is it possible that both are true? Could the same person who injured me have also saved me?
I wanted her to leave my life. There was another part of her that was quieter and deeper that still loved her. That portion remembered every night she stayed up with me, every meal she made when I couldn’t eat, and every time she told me I could do better. Was I ready to lose everything because of one dumb choice?
I told her to meet me in the park. We originally met during orientation, when we were both excited freshmen in college. It had been a while since we had been there.
When I got there, she was already there, sitting on the same old bench under the maple tree. When I got closer, she looked up at me. Her eyes were swollen from sobbing, but she didn’t say anything. She didn’t utter a word. She stared at me like she understood that what occurred next would change everything.
“I can’t forget,” I said. My voice was shaking. “I don’t think I ever will.”
She nodded slowly. “I don’t think you will.”
“But,” I continued, my eyes swelling with tears, “I don’t want to lose you either.”
She had only one tear on her face. She cautiously reached for my hand, and I allowed her.
You can’t just choose to forgive. It’s not letting go. It’s not pretending the hurt isn’t there. It’s standing in front of the person who injured you, seeing both their flaws and their love, and deciding to create room for both. I didn’t forgive that day because I was done with it. I forgave because I saw Ava as a whole person, not just as a weak person at one point in time.
It took a while for things to get back to normal between us. It takes time to rebuild trust. But we helped each other out in little ways. We had a conversation. We wept. We made room for the truth. Some days, the pain came back. But the love came back too.
It’s hard to believe that the individuals who hurt you are still worth loving. We don’t always forgive because we want to forget the past. Sometimes we forgive because we believe in a future that’s still worth fighting for.
In that honest, weak space, we began again. Not as the individuals we used to be, but as the women we had become—flawed, healing, and still clinging on.