They say friends are the family you choose. I used to believe that—especially with Jessica, my best friend since college. We shared everything. But from the moment I met her husband, Mark, my gut said something was off. Cold eyes, fake smile. I never liked him.
One spring afternoon on Jessica’s porch, she asked me to watch her house while she was away for work—feed the cat, water the plants. I asked why Mark couldn’t do it. “Not a man’s job,” she said. I called her out for making excuses for him. She got defensive, accusing me of jealousy.
But I agreed to help—for her. When I came by to feed the cat, I heard voices upstairs. Laughter. Mark and another woman. She was in Jessica’s robe, sipping from her glass. Mark bragged about tricking Jessica into signing papers to steal the house.
I called Jessica. She didn’t believe me—said I was jealous and hung up. That’s when I did something drastic. I faked a hospital emergency to get her attention. It worked.
She rushed over, furious at first. But when I showed her the truth—Mark kissing the woman, her belongings bagged as “trash”—she saw everything. She confronted him. He tried to blame me. She told him to get out.
Later, she admitted she’d suspected him for a while but needed proof. She never stopped trusting me.
We stood in the wreckage of her home. She looked at the mess, then said, “Let’s clean this up. I’ve got a life to rebuild.”
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