After being married for twelve years, I learned a lot about my life that I didn’t know before. Mark and I broke up. It wasn’t just the end of a relationship; it was the loss of my identity as a wife, as someone who believed in forever, and as someone who had constructed her universe around someone who didn’t want to stay. I recall being in our kitchen, which was mine, clutching a mug I had since our wedding register, and realizing I didn’t know who I was anymore. I had to leave the house because it damaged my ears. I got hurt in a way that I didn’t realize could happen. I didn’t eat a much. I didn’t sleep too well. I thought I was going down slowly.
Ava came next.
We had been great friends since college. We lived together in a little, old apartment off campus that had peeling paint and dreams that went on for miles. She knew me better than anyone else. She knew more than simply what kind of coffee and wine I liked. Before my marriage was bad and unhappy, 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 made room for me on her couch, brought me my favorite ice cream, and hugged me when I didn’t even know I needed one.
“I’m here,” she said. She was.
I lived with her for three months in the end. At that time, she held me. She heard me talk about how unhappy I was. She held me when I sobbed out of nowhere. She kept me busy late at night by playing our favorite shows over and over. She taught me how to laugh again. I progressively got back to myself. I got a modest apartment. I found a job that I really enjoyed. I learned how to be by myself and subsequently how to like it. And Ava was always there for me, powerful, present, and patient.
It took eight years. Eight years of birthdays, girlfriends’ nights out, job changes, and being in better shape. Then, out of nowhere, I saw Mark on a Tuesday. I hadn’t seen him in a long time, so he looked like a stranger. We uttered things that made us feel bad to each other on the sidewalk next to a café. And then, out of nowhere, his face changed from smug to angry.
He turned his head and said, “Are you still friends with Ava?”
I slowly nodded because I didn’t understand what they were asking.
He moved closer and stated, “I had sex with her.”
The world stopped.
It seemed like time was bending in on itself. I couldn’t move, but my mind was racing. He was lying. He had to be. What made him say that? Why now? But there was something about the way he spoke that sounded real to me. It was hard and didn’t feel sorry. My legs were shaking as I turned around and walked away.
I called Ava that night. I couldn’t breathe till I knew.
I didn’t say hello when she answered. “What happened?” I asked.
The person on the other end of the line didn’t say anything, which spoke a lot more than words could. Then her voice came, and it was lovely and broken. “Yes,” she responded. “One time.” A long time ago. Right after you broke up. That wasn’t a good idea. The most significant thing to me.
I went down.
She kept talking, her voice unsteady and harsh. She told me that she had wanted to tell me so many times, but every time she saw how weak and hurt I was, she couldn’t. She told me she was sorry for what she did, but she was also unhappy about how it hurt our friendship and trust. She said that every day since then, she had tried to be the friend she hadn’t been that night. Friends don’t do things like she did for me, like being nice to me, helping me, and being there for me. They were deeds of redemption.
I felt everything all at once. Feeling let down. Sadness. Fury. She felt sad, but not because of Mark; he had been gone for a long time. She was unhappy because of herself. The same person who helped me get up also helped me fall.
For the following few days, everything was a blur. I couldn’t get any sleep. I read Ava’s old messages, looked at pictures of us, and remembered the nights we laughed and the days we felt so close. How could these memories still be there after this betrayal? Is it possible that both are right? Could the same person who injured me have also saved me?
I wanted to get rid of her. 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 for me when I couldn’t eat, and every time she told me I could do better. Was I willing to give up everything for one dumb choice?
I told her to meet me in the park. We met for the first time during orientation, when we were both excited first-year college students. We hadn’t been back in a long time.
When I got there, she was already there, sitting on the same old bench under the maple tree. She looked up at me as I got closer. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes were puffy from tears. She didn’t speak. She just looked at me like she knew that what occurred next would change everything.
“I can’t forget,” I said. I was shaking when I spoke. “I don’t think I ever will.”
She nodded slowly. “I don’t think you will.”
“But,” I murmured, tears welling up in my eyes, “I don’t want to lose you either.”
She only had one tear on her face. She cautiously reached for my hand, and I allowed her.
You can’t just say you forgive. It won’t let go. It’s not pretending that the wound 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 over it. I forgave because I saw Ava as a whole person, not just as a weak person at one point in time.
Our friendship took a while to get back to normal. It takes time to get people to trust you again. But we were there for each other in little ways. We had a conversation. We cried. We made room for the truth. Some days the pain came back. But the love came back as well.
It’s hard to believe that the individuals who hurt you are still worth loving. We don’t always forgive because we wish to forget what happened; sometimes we forgive because we feel there is still a future worth fighting for.
We began again in that honest, delicate area. Not as the individuals we used to be, but as the women we had become—imperfect, healing, and still clinging on.
