THE «CURSED» FRIEND
There are countless cases where a husband leaves his wife for her best friend. And it’s hardly surprising.
Your closest friend is practically family. She’s always welcome in your home, part of your inner circle. She knows every routine, every tradition, your husband’s birthday, your children’s milestones. Over the years, she’s learned his preferences inside out.
Even if you’re nothing alike, something has kept you friends for decades. And that very *something* is enough for your beloved husband to wave goodbye one day and walk out.
That’s exactly what happened in my marriage.
…Maggie—my old schoolmate—had been my friend for years. Never once did I suspect her of being a homewrecker. What a mistake.
She’d often say, *»Your Tom doesn’t interest me in the slightest.»*
I’d laugh carelessly: *»Thank goodness for that!»*
…I married straight out of school. He was nineteen, I was seventeen. Statistics warning that young marriages often fail didn’t faze us. We were certain we’d die together seventy years later. Young and naïve.
Maggie visited often, watching me bask in domestic bliss. Two children came along. Years passed. Maggie remained single. Sure, she had flings, but no proposals. Plenty of suitors came and went, but none stayed.
She’d practically become part of our family. Yet she always arrived dressed to impress—full makeup, manicured nails, a dress with a daring neckline. Meanwhile, there I was in a dressing gown, clutching a vacuum or a saucepan. Of course, I paled in comparison. But back then, it never crossed my mind.
Mum warned me: *»Maggie’s jealous. Keep your distance. A single friend is like a ticking time bomb—you never know when she’ll blow up.»*
I brushed it off: *»What’s there to envy? I barely have time to look at the sky!»*
Mum was right.
Eventually, Tom grew irritable whenever Maggie visited. He’d retreat to another room. I assumed he was tired of our chats, so I cut back on seeing her. Family came first. Only later did I realise—he’d already fallen for her. Every visit tormented him. As they say, the grass always seems greener.
…One summer, I took the kids to the seaside. Tom promised to redecorate the kitchen while we were away.
When we returned, I knew instantly he hadn’t been home for days. The lemon tree in the pot had withered—no one had watered it. And the kitchen? Untouched.
So, who was the snake slithering into my marriage? I ran through every possible suspect. Then I spotted it—a lipstick tube by the dead plant. That shade of crimson was unmistakably Maggie’s. There she was—the serpent herself. My legs gave way. I slumped onto a chair, struggling to process it.
Gathering myself, I rushed to Maggie’s, praying it was all a misunderstanding. Surely she’d laugh it off as a prank. But no.
She opened the door but didn’t invite me in.
*»Care to explain why your lipstick was in my house?»* I demanded.
*»Haven’t you figured it out? Tom and I are in love. Have been for a while,»* she replied coolly.
I trudged home, imagining the scene—Maggie ringing the bell, Tom answering, her stepping inside, noticing he was alone. *»A bit of stubble suits you,»* she’d say, trailing her fingers along his jaw. He’d catch her hand, press a kiss to her palm… The images made me sick.
But what can you do? Men leave good wives and bad ones alike. Even vows before God crumble. It’s always been this way. A man always wonders, always wanders. He sees another woman as graceful as a swan, while his own grows bitter as wormwood. And it stings twice as much when the other woman is your dearest—*cursed*—friend.
…Years later, I ran into an acquaintance, Julie. She married late, at twenty-eight, and had a son. Her husband adored the boy—more than her, in fact. He was a restless soul, drifting in and out of their marriage, always returning for his son. Julie endured it for years. Where she found the strength, I’ll never know. Maybe her sewing kept her sane—she was brilliant at it, always busy with clients. We weren’t close, but I’d ask whenever we met:
*»Julie, any new weddings?»*
She’d always say, *»No, and I don’t want one.»*
But this time, she beamed: *»My Sam’s back! Can you believe it? After sixteen years, he crawled home, leaving all his flings behind. I took him in. Who’d want him now? And it’s not like I’ve got queues at my door. At least I’ll have someone to hand me a glass of water in old age. Family matters most. Who needs all that melodrama?»*
Maybe she’s right. They’ve been inseparable for seven years now.
Either way, what’s done is done. Spilt milk can’t be poured back. A torn friendship can’t be stitched together.
…Now, I have a second husband and one steadfastly married friend. It’s enough.
Tom and Maggie split within a year. He drifted into the arms of another woman, where he remains.
Of course, life without friends is unthinkable. You need those late-night chats, those girls’ nights.
But be careful. Be *very* careful with your closest friends.
Filter what you share about your peaceful marriage—or trouble will catch up.
Maggie never did start a family. She spends her days alone.