I stole my sister Thea’s fiancé, Jonathan. I knew it was wrong, but I told myself we were “meant to be.” We married in a lavish ceremony, and my family’s disapproval was swift and final—they cut me off completely.
For a while, the luxe life was intoxicating—designer clothes, glittering parties, and vacations that felt like movie sets. But the shine wore off quickly. Jonathan grew distant, buried in “business trips” and late nights at the office. I convinced myself that was just the price of being married to a man like him—successful, in demand, and a little unreachable.
Years later, there was a knock at my door. My mother stood there, older and colder than I remembered, holding an envelope. She handed it to me and said quietly, “Even you don’t deserve this.”
Inside was a single photograph—Jonathan in bed with a man, his arms wrapped around him like they’d known each other for years. My stomach dropped. When I confronted Jonathan, his face crumpled. He admitted he had been closeted for most of his life, marrying women in an attempt to “fix” himself—first Thea, then me.
I left that night with nothing but a suitcase. The divorce was swift. I rented a tiny apartment over a bakery and took a job at an art supply store. For the first time in years, I picked up a paintbrush.
Then, one day, Thea reached out. We met for coffee. The conversation was awkward, painful, but honest. We owned our damage, our betrayals, and little by little, we found a path back to each other.
I still sell paintings now—small works, but each one a piece of me. The life I have isn’t dripping in gold anymore, but it’s solid. And this time, it’s real.