For five years, Michael and I built what I believed was a loving, steady marriage. Alongside us was Anna, my best friend and closest confidante. When I found out I was pregnant, I thought it was the next chapter in our happiness.
But something shifted. Michael became distant—working late, barely speaking, and avoiding eye contact. I felt him slipping away but didn’t know why. Desperate, I turned to Anna. She told me not to worry, that he loved me, that I was overthinking.
Then came the worst day of my life. I woke with pain and ended up in a hospital bed. The doctor’s quiet words crushed me—there was no heartbeat. The baby was gone.
Michael barely reacted. He didn’t comfort me. He was already emotionally gone. A month later, he left for good.
“I’m not happy anymore, Helena,” he said coldly at our kitchen table, offering no apology—just detachment.
I asked if it was because of the miscarriage. He denied it, but I knew better. The silence, the betrayal, the loss—they all collided, leaving me heartbroken, abandoned, and questioning everything I thought I knew about love and trust.
