Love Buried in Lies
Someone texted me halfway through the wedding. The message read, "I had sex with your husband. Doesn't matter if you don't believe it."
The message hit me like a hammer, and I stood petrified. Then, the texter sent another message, "Second pocket on the inside of his coat. There's a used condom there from last night. Strawberry. We were setting up the room, and one thing led to another.
"We did it everywhere. Balcony, kitchen, and even in your car. He's not allergic to women. He'd gladly sleep with someone before marriage. He lied to you."
Everything began to spin. I walked ahead, but my movements felt stiff. I felt as if someone was yanking me forward. I approached the aloof, abstinent man I called my husband. The same man who had to think twice before holding my hand.
Sure enough, I found a pink condom in his pocket. Gasps and shouts rippled across the hall, while flashes of camera blazed and blinded the scene.
I spun on my heel. That was when I saw my best friend Zoe holding up her phone beneath the stage, a gentle smile hanging on her lips. Something bitter and sad filled my heart.
It took me standing here, utterly humiliated, to realize that the very thing I spent my whole life fighting for was nothing but a joke.
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