Patrick always told me we needed more time before moving in together. More time before getting engaged. More time before making any real commitment. But the second I inherited a fully paid-off apartment? He couldn’t wait another second. And that’s when I knew—I was never his first choice. For years, I watched my friends fall in love, get engaged, and start their lives with partners who adored them. Meanwhile, I was the one always third-wheeling, the one asked to take cute couple photos, the one joking about how I’d probably

I thought I was coming home after a long day. Instead, I walked straight into a nightmare. My clothes, my belongings—my entire life—were tossed onto the street like garbage. My heart pounded as I took in the mess. Then, I looked up. And it wasn’t my husband standing in the doorway. It was his mistress. Smirking like she had won. But karma always comes to collect its debts. For fifteen years, I was Josh’s wife. Fifteen years of love, loyalty, and sacrifice. We built a life together, raised two beautiful

They say time heals, but grief doesn’t follow rules. Thirteen years have passed since my father died, and not a single day goes by without me missing him. But when I stepped into his house for the first time since his death, I found something in the attic—something that brought me to my knees in tears. Grief doesn’t fade away like people say it does. Instead, it burrows deep, hiding in the quiet spaces of your life, waiting for the right moment to remind you of what you’ve lost. For