I used to think betrayal came with warning signs—raised voices, slammed doors, some obvious crack in the foundation.
What I learned instead is that sometimes it arrives dressed up as “happiness,” wrapped in satin ribbon, and handed to you by people who swear you should be grateful they’re finally living their truth.
My name is Tessa. I’m 27. And yes—my mother married my husband.
Even writing that still feels unreal, like a sentence that should collapse under its own absurdity. But it happened. And for a while, it felt like the universe had decided I was the punchline.