I Never Imagined the Person Who Would Hurt Me Most Would Be My Best Friend of Over Ten Years — The One Who Slept at My House, Knew My Secrets, My Failures, My Dreams, and Whom I Trusted Unconditionally. From the Day I Met Him, I Shared Everything with Her. At First, She Pretended to Be Happy for Me, Yet Her Warnings Always Had a Strange Edge, as If Her Concern Was Masked Disapproval. Soon, She Began Comparing Him to My Exes, Saying I Always Chose the Wrong Men—Every Sign Became a Red Flag in Her Eyes. Then One Night, After Seeing Them Whispering When I Returned from the Bathroom, She Said He Was ‘Too Friendly’ with Her and That Seemed Suspicious. After That, She Grew Jealous Whenever I Spent Time With Him, Claiming I Was Losing Myself and Abandoning Her for a Man. Eventually, She Showed Me Supposed Comments Hinting at His Past with Other Women—Rumours and Out-of-Context Posts, But No Proof. When I Pressed Her, She Said She Didn’t Want to Hurt Me but Couldn’t Stay Silent. I Started to Doubt Everything, Argued Constantly With Him, Searched His Phone, Until We Broke Up After Pointless Fights. A Month Later, I Discovered My ‘Best Friend’ Was Now Seeing Him—First She Said It Was to ‘Clear the Air’, Then That They’d Just Met for Coffee, Until Finally She Admitted They Were Seeing Each Other Regularly. She Never Apologised, Telling Me I Had Only Myself to Blame. He Said, ‘I Only Did What You Couldn’t Hold On To’. That’s When I Realised This Wasn’t Concern—It Was Jealousy. She Couldn’t Stand to See Me Happy With Something She Lacked. Now, I Have Neither a Boyfriend Nor a Best Friend, But I Have Clarity: I Lost Two Relationships, but Gained the Comfort of Knowing Not Everyone Sitting Beside You Wants to See You Succeed—Some Are Just Waiting for the Right Moment to See You Fall.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 4 minViews 1

I never would have thought that the person who would hurt me the most would be my best friend. Emma and I have known each other for over ten years. Shes slept at my house, cried with me, knew my fears, failures, and dreams. I trusted her absolutely.

When I met Jack, I told her on the very first day. At first she pretended to be happy for me, but there was always something off in her reactions. She never said, Im happy for you, but instead, Just be careful. Not, He seems lovely, but, Dont get carried away. Every comment was like a warning disguised as concern.

Within a few weeks, the comparisons started. Shed tell me that he wasnt much different from my exes, that I always fall for the same sort of men. If Jack messaged me a lot, Emma would say it showed worrying intensity. If he went quiet for a few hours, then apparently he must be with someone else. There was never a middle ground with her.

The turning point came one night when the three of us went out for a drink in London. I nipped to the loo, and when I came back, I saw them talking very close together. It didnt seem obviously wrong, but the scene unsettled me. That evening, Emma texted me to say Jack was overly charming towards her and that she found it suspicious. I honestly didnt know what to think, but it made me anxious.

Everything unravelled from there. Every time I made plans with Jack, Emma got upset. Shed complain that I never had time for her anymore, that Id changed. She kept insisting that women should never lose their friends over a man. Yet, whenever I tried to arrange to see her, shed always make excuses.

Then came the most serious blow. She showed me supposed comments from people claiming to have had something with Jack. There were no messages, no proofjust rumours, things taken out of context from social media, and phrases like, Ive heard that I asked her why she hadnt mentioned this sooner. She said she didnt want to upset me, but she couldnt keep quiet any longer.

That same week, I started having arguments with Jack about things that never used to matter. I began doubting everything. For the first time, I checked his phone. I demanded explanations for things he didnt know how to explain. He grew exhausted. He told me he felt I didnt trust him and he couldnt understand where all this suspicion was coming from. Not long after, we ended thingsarguments upon arguments that no longer made sense.

The worst part came afterwards. A month later, I learned that my so-called best friend was in touch with him. First, she said it was to clear the air. Then, it was just meeting for coffee. Eventually, she admitted theyd been seeing each other regularly. When I confronted her, she didnt apologise. She told me she hadnt done anything wrong and that it was my own fault.

Jack said something to me that keeps echoing in my head:
I only did what you couldnt keep hold of yourself.

Thats when it all became clear. This was never care. It was never caution. It was competition. Emma couldnt stand to see me happy, moving forward, with something she didnt have. She didnt want to be left behind.

Today, I have neither the man nor the friend. But I finally have clarity. I lost two relationships, yes. But I gained something far more valuablethe certainty that not everyone who sits by your side and listens actually wants the best for you. Some are simply waiting for the right moment to drag you down.

I Stopped Cooking and Cleaning for My Grown-Up Sons – The Surprising Outcome – “Mum, why isn’t my blue shirt ironed? I told you, I’ve got an interview tomorrow,” my 25-year-old son Daniel called out, his voice laced with the usual entitlement from somewhere in the depths of his room. “And are we out of washing powder or something? My socks are piling up in the bathroom!” Linda Andrews froze in the hallway, her arms aching as she balanced the heavy shopping bags. The strap dug into her shoulder, her feet throbbed after a ten-hour shift at the supermarket, and a single thought pounded in her head: “When will this end?” She carefully lowered the bags and caught her reflection in the mirror: a tired woman, her eyes dulled by resignation. In the kitchen, her younger son Adam, 22, was clattering about. “Mum, did you get bread? Dan and I finished off the ham, but had nothing to eat with it,” he shouted, not even bothering to appear. “And the soup’s gone off. I chucked it, but didn’t wash the pot—it’s stuck on the bottom. Can you make something else? Maybe shepherd’s pie this time, I’m over your stew.” Linda slipped off her shoes, placing them neatly by the rack. Inside, something snapped—a taut thread of patience finally gave way. She stepped into the kitchen. Adam was glued to his phone, surrounded by crumbs, tea stains, and wrappers. The sink was a leaning tower of dirty dishes, ready to topple. “Hello, love,” she said quietly. “Yeah, hi. So, did you get bread?” “There’s bread—in the shop.” Adam looked up, confused. “What do you mean, you didn’t buy it?” “I didn’t. And I haven’t ironed Daniel’s shirt. Or bought more washing powder. And I won’t be making shepherd’s pie either.” Daniel wandered in, scratching his stomach, wearing only boxer shorts despite it being nearly evening. “Mum, what’s up? I’m not joking about the shirt. You know I’m useless with the iron, I always ruin the seams.” Linda sat on the stool without unpacking the bags, looking at her two healthy, grown men. Daniel—tall and broad, a graduate for two years now, working as a sales rep but spending his wages only on gadgets and nights out. Adam—a part-time student, delivering pizzas, but never lifting a finger at home. “Sit down,” she ordered, voice cold, unfamiliar even to herself. The boys exchanged glances. Not a hint of the usual whining or grumbling—just a steely resolve they’d never heard. Reluctantly, they sat. “I’m fifty-two. I work full-time. I pay the bills, buy the food, run this house. You—two healthy men. Not children, not invalids. Men. And you’ve turned me into your maid.” “Oh, here we go,” Daniel rolled his eyes. “Mum, we work too, we get tired. Anyway, you’re the mum, the homemaker—that’s your thing, right?” “My thing is having a rest and a bit of respect,” Linda cut him off. “As of today, ‘homemaker’ is off duty. I’m going on strike.” “On strike?” Adam snorted. “You mean, like, you’re not going to cook?” “I’ll eat—just what I make for myself. I’ll wash my own clothes. Clean my own room. From now on, you’re adults. If you want to eat, cook. Want clean shirts? Learn to iron. YouTube is full of tutorials.” Silence. Her sons stared at her in disbelief, clearly expecting her to laugh, tie on her apron, and start frying up dinner. “Mum, this isn’t funny,” Daniel frowned. “I’ve got an interview. I need that shirt.” “Iron’s in the hall cupboard. Board’s behind the door. Go for it.” Linda got up, took out a yogurt and an apple—her dinner—and went to her room, closing the door. That first evening was quiet. The boys, assuming it was a mood that’d pass by morning, ordered pizza, left the boxes everywhere, and played video games into the night. Linda, for once, had a long, luxurious bath and read a book, feeling strangely, almost frighteningly, free. The next morning began with a bang. “Where’s the bloody iron? Mum! I’m late!” Linda emerged already dressed for work, looking fresh. “In the hall cupboard, bottom shelf.” “I found it, but it’s cold! You broke it!” “Try plugging it in. You’ll need water too.” “I’m late! Mum, please—just this once! Please!” “No. Your interview, your responsibility.” She left, leaving Daniel to battle the crumpled shirt and the cold iron on his own. Her maternal instinct itched to step in, but her head was firm: Give in now, lose forever. That night, as soon as she entered, she smelled it—burnt oil and something sour. The kitchen was a disaster zone. A frying pan with the charred remains of eggs sat directly on the table, scorching the cloth, the tower of washing-up grew taller, and the floor was sticky. Adam sat, hungry and angry. “Mum, this is ridiculous. There’s nothing to eat. Just your yogurts in the fridge. Are we supposed to starve?” “Plenty at the shop. Frozen pizzas. Pasta. Sausages. You’ve got money.” “We can’t cook pasta! It goes to mush!” “Read the instructions. It’s written on the pack.” Linda calmly moved a dirty pan aside, wiped herself a clean patch, took out a salad, and ate, ignoring her sons as they circled her like hungry sharks. “Look,” Daniel finally blurted, face thunderous. “If you’re not doing your job as a mum, then we’re not— I don’t know. We’ll be cross!” “Go ahead. My job as your mum ended when you turned eighteen. Anything after that’s a favour, which stops when it’s taken for granted.” “You’re so selfish!” Adam cried. “Maybe. But I’m a peaceful, well-fed selfish woman.” The days that followed were a cold war. The flat descended into filth—no one bought toilet paper until Linda pointedly brought her own roll and carried it to and from the bathroom. The bin overflowed into a stinking mound. The boys lived on fast food, with greasy wrappers everywhere. Linda held out, though the mess physically pained her. She wanted to clean, cook, air out the flat—but she knew this was bitter medicine they had to take. By Thursday, something broke. Daniel was rummaging through the laundry. “Looking for something?” “Socks. All the clean ones are gone.” “So do a wash.” “The machine’s complicated! Too many buttons. I’ll ruin it all.” “There’s a quick wash button. One button, Daniel. Powder compartment’s marked.” “We’re out of powder!” “Then buy some.” He threw his last dirty sock down in a huff. “I’ll just buy new ones!” “Go on, then. Very adult—throwing money at new socks instead of washing.” The next day, Linda woke up sick—sore throat, fever—so she called in sick and stayed in bed. Her sons, both off that day, found her and peered in. “You ill, Mum?” Adam asked from the doorway. “Yeah. Thirty-eight degree fever. No, I’m not making lunch. Close the door, please.” They left. She could hear them in the kitchen. “Mate, seriously…I’m starving.” “Order a takeaway?” “No money, spent mine on trainers yesterday.” “I’m broke ‘til student loan comes in.” “Should we, like, make pasta?” “Might as well. Where’s the salt?” Linda drifted off, waking later to the acrid smell of burning. She staggered to the kitchen—blackened pasta fused to the pot, smoke everywhere, her sons looking sheepish. “We were only gone five minutes, just finishing a game…” Adam stammered. “Open a window!” Linda wheezed, coughing. “You’ll burn the house down!” She dumped the charred pot in the sink and burst into tears—loud, racking sobs. Not over the ruined pot, but her helpless, hopeless sons. Her sons were stunned—they’d never seen their mother cry, not like this. Always the strong, unflappable force. Now, just a small, hunched woman in an old dressing gown, broken by a burnt saucepan. “Mum…come on,” Daniel said awkwardly, patting her shoulder. “It’s just a pot.” “It’s not the pot!” she cried. “It’s you two! You’re hopeless! Helpless! If anything happens to me, you’ll starve in a flat with a full fridge! I’m ashamed! Ashamed you’re such parasites!” She sobbed herself out and retreated to her room. The boys stayed in the smoky kitchen. That evening, she remained in bed, indifferent to whatever chaos might be brewing. Around eight, the bedroom door creaked open. “Mum, you awake?” Adam’s voice. “No.” “We, um, went to the chemist. Dan borrowed some money. Got you throat lozenges, LemSip, and a lemon.” Linda turned—Adam offered her the bag, Daniel hovered behind with a tray—hot (too strong) tea, lopsided sandwiches with slabs of ham and drooping cheese, but sandwiches all the same. “Thanks,” she said quietly. “And, erm, we tried to tidy up. Washed the dishes. Broke a few plates—they’re slippery. Swept the floor.” She sipped the tea. It stung on the way down, but her soul felt warmer. “Smashed plates, that’s lucky,” she managed a smile. The next days, Linda stayed unwell, her sons pestering her with questions: “Which drawer for powder? Do you rinse rice? Where’s the dust cloth?” They managed a sort-of chicken soup, with lumpy potatoes and half-cooked carrots. Daniel ironed his own t-shirt—left a shiny patch but wore it with pride. When she was finally better, she found a rota stuck on the fridge: “Monday, Wednesday, Friday – Dan (dishes, bins). Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday – Adam (floors, shopping). Sunday – everyone together.” “What’s this?” she asked Daniel at breakfast. “It’s a cleaning rota,” he muttered, not meeting her eye. “You were right—the state of the place was embarrassing. We’re grown men, can’t have Mum doing it all.” “And will you stick to it?” “We’ll try. Adam Googled how to get crispy roast potatoes. Apparently you don’t stir them much…who knew?” Linda smiled—for the first time in ages. A month passed. The system wasn’t perfect, but the ‘domestic disability’ was on the decline. She noticed other changes—she began swimming at the pool she’d always fancied, met friends regularly, even caught the admiring gaze of men on the street. Then, one evening after swimming, she found her sons cooking in the kitchen. “What’s going on?” “Cooking dinner,” Adam sniffled (onion), “Dan’s first payslip at his new job, so we’re celebrating. We’re making cottage pie.” “New job?” she asked Daniel. “Yeah. After that interview in a wrinkled shirt, they turned me down—said I wasn’t presentable. I felt awful, Mum. Learned to iron, found another job, nailed the interview. Now I’m a logistics assistant.” “I’m proud of you, love.” “Sit, Mum,” Daniel pulled out a chair. “Glass of wine? Got a proper one.” That dinner was hardly gourmet—but for Linda, it was the most delicious meal in the world. Watching her sons regain confidence and responsibility, stop being entitled consumers and start being partners, made her heart full. “You know, Mum,” Adam said thoughtfully, “moving out would be expensive and hard. But living with you and treating you like a housemaid? Embarrassing. Me and Dan are paying a third each for bills and shopping from now on. Fair?” “Fair. Very fair.” “And—sorry for the pigsty. We didn’t get it. Thought everything just magically stayed tidy and the fridge filled itself. Like, fairy magic.” “The magic’s over, lads. Real life’s started.” Old habits did crop up—in fact she found a stray sock under the sofa once. Where previously she’d have tutted and picked it up, this time she called Adam over. “Is this your trophy?” “Oh, oops! Forgot. I’ll get it.” And he did. No fuss. No reminders. Linda realised her self-sacrifice hadn’t made her sons happier—just helpless. Her ‘tough love’, which at first felt harsh, had actually taught them to love themselves enough to be self-reliant. When her friends moaned about grown-up kids freeloading at home, Linda smiled slyly and said, “Have you ever just stopped being convenient?” “What do you mean? They’d never cope!” “They will. Hunger is a great motivator. A wrinkled shirt works wonders. Trust me.” On Friday, as Linda got ready for the theatre in a new dress, Adam wolf-whistled: “Where you off to, looking gorgeous?” “A date,” she winked. “With art—and with myself. There’s food in the fridge… well, ingredients. Google’s your friend. You’re not little boys.” She stepped outside, breathing in the evening air—truly free. No longer anyone’s servant. Simply a woman. And, finally, the proud mother of adult sons who’d learned to value her time and respect her labour. The results of her experiment didn’t just surprise her—they changed her life. Sometimes, all it takes for peace and order at home is a dash of chaos, smartly administered.

01

Making It to the Golden Wedding Anniversary Ludmila and Ivan had spent twenty-five years together. She was now fifty, and her husband was two years older. Their life, much like everyone else’s in the village, revolved around their home, chores, work, and their son Matt, who was grown up, living in the city, had finished college, and was working at the steelworks. One weekend, Matt came home with a beautiful young woman. “Meet my girlfriend, Mum and Dad—this is Julia. We’re planning to get married soon, just have to submit the papers to the registry office,” Matt announced. “Hello,” Julia said shyly, blushing. “Hello, Julia dear, come in, make yourself at home—things are simple here, don’t be shy,” Ludmila chirped as she set the table. Julia made a good impression on Matt’s parents, and they soon returned to the city. Matt called regularly, and finally told his mum they’d be married in the summer. Ludmila was delighted, told Ivan, and he was thrilled too. Everything seemed perfect, but Ludmila couldn’t stop worrying about herself—it was impossible to imagine that she, at fifty, would fall in love with a neighbour, and no less than Ivan’s good friend Michael. Michael stopped by one evening with a bottle of brandy. His wife worked as a long-distance train conductor and was away for long stretches. Marina always trusted her husband alone—she’d never suspected he might “go wandering into someone else’s yard.” Their daughter Vera lived in the city and sometimes visited, bringing groceries for her father when her mother was away. The couple managed mainly by phone when Marina was gone, then she’d come back for ten days before another trip. “Mike, let me show you the amazing power drill I got at the market,” Ivan exclaimed, jumping up and heading to the shed. Michael wasted no time—and grabbed Ludmila’s waist, hungrily kissing her neck. Waves of excitement raced through her. Suddenly, the veranda door opened; Ludmila leapt away and snatched up a rag to wipe the table, head down, afraid to meet Ivan’s gaze. Her eyes sparkled—she could feel it. Ivan didn’t notice his wife’s flushed face or Michael’s unease. He handed the box to Michael. “Great tool, really useful… let’s have a toast to it,” Ivan said, pouring brandy. “Lud, join us?” “No, boys, I’m tired—going to have a lie down,” Ludmila replied, retreating to the bedroom. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. “You cheeky thing, Ludmila, you look like an eighteen-year-old, eyes all a-flutter,” she whispered, cheekily smiling to herself. At fifty, Ludmila had filled out a little—her curves were fuller, her face rounder, but her features remained attractive and her eyes… they were always striking. She was looking her age, but still beautiful. She knew how to do her makeup, slip on a nice dress, put on her heels—and she was nearly the belle of the village. Michael had caught her eye a while ago. He was tall and rugged, and his gaze burned into her—she learned recently he’d been in love with her for years. Michael was fifty-four, married to Marina, and on good terms with his neighbours. One day Ludmila ran into him, heading to the shop. “Lud, hi—pop in for a sec, could use help cooking pelmeni.” “Oh Mike, I’m in a rush to the shop,” she said, glancing wistfully at her house, wishing she’d put on her makeup and fixed her hair. But she surprised herself—and darted into his yard. Up the steps, in the door, and straight into his arms as he quickly closed the door. Michael’s kisses sent Ludmila’s head spinning, and neither thought of stopping. “Your shop will wait,” Michael grinned. “I have no clue how long to boil pelmeni,” he whispered, already ushering her inside. “Ten minutes is enough,” Ludmila replied. “First time making them?” “Lately, there’s a lot of firsts for me without my wife around,” Michael smirked. “But I could help—” “No, we’ve got other business,” he said, holding her tighter than he had yesterday in her kitchen. Her coat fell to the floor as he buried his face in her chest. “Oh Mike, I am married…” “So? I’m married, too… but I really want you, and I can tell from the way you look at me that you want me too. Ivan doesn’t cherish you, and your life lacks joy.” Ludmila didn’t protest. Her husband hadn’t complimented her in ages, hadn’t called her lovely. Didn’t she deserve it? Then came the passionate kisses and true betrayal—her first ever, her first affair. She lay in Marina’s place and for once, her conscience did not torment her—she convinced herself she was right. “You’re incredible, Lud. I could live with you,” Michael said. “Me and Marina only talk on the phone these days. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s found a man herself, traveling so much. Maybe an engineer or another conductor?” Michael’s kisses, heady and forbidden, were making Ludmila dizzy—but she remembered her trip to the shop. She hurried to dress, was about to leave when Vera’s voice called out. “Hello Auntie Lud!” Ludmila flustered, but held herself together. “Hi, Vera. I was just showing your dad how to cook pelmeni. He’s hopeless alone.” “Dad, I’ve shown you before,” Vera said, making for the kitchen. “I know you starve without Mum, so I brought food.” “All right, I’ll be off then, Vera can explain,” Ludmila said. Her blood was buzzing, cheeks flushed—she’d fallen for the neighbour she’d always considered off-limits. But now the most rugged man in the village was hers. She visited him again, and again. She didn’t realise that gossip about them was spreading across the village. “You’ve been gone an awfully long time at the shop,” Ivan said slyly once. Ludmila missed the implication. “What were you doing at Michael’s?” “Oh, he can’t cope without Marina. Asked about pelmeni, so I explained. Vera’s there too—looks like she might marry soon as well.” Michael was now frank. “If they catch us, we’ll say it’s love. Marina can go to her mystery man, and Ivan…” he trailed off, kissing her instead. “Oh Mike, what are we doing…I’m almost fifty and here I am in love…” “Love knows no age, Lud,” Michael said, pulling her close. Her last traces of shame melted. Ludmila was sure she deserved this love. Their trysts went on into the second week; once, Ivan nearly caught her at Michael’s—she hid in the shed till the coast was clear. That evening, Ivan confronted Ludmila. “I know everything… Gennady told me he saw you at Michael’s. Our silver anniversary is in three days at the community centre, the guests are invited, everything is set… and you…” “I’m sorry, Ivan,” Ludmila mumbled, eyes downcast. “I don’t know what came over me… You know men get reckless too sometimes… maybe this is our turn…” Ivan swore at her. “Call me what you want, I truly don’t know what happened. Please forgive me, Ivan.” “We’ll celebrate our anniversary, pretend everything is normal, and then we’re done. You can explain things to our son. His wedding is soon and his mother… jumping between men.” On the big day, everyone gathered in the village hall. Ludmila sat next to Ivan, dressed up, makeup flawless, a new necklace gleaming at her throat, catching Michael’s eye. He was there alone—Marina was due back any day. She didn’t care. Let them look, let them think what they would—no one knew about her and Michael’s real love. “They don’t know what true love is anyway,” she thought. There were toasts, including Michael’s: “Wishing the happy couple another twenty-five years of joy and health—hope we’re all together to celebrate again in a quarter-century!” He downed his vodka, the others clapping and joining in. That night Ivan decided: he and Ludmila needed to talk divorce. Enough was enough, his wife’s affair with his friend was the talk of the village. He avoided Michael; they were no longer friends. “I’ll talk to her tonight,” Ivan thought, busy with chores. Ludmila popped to the shop, intending to call in on Michael for moral support. Michael appeared from the shed and, seeing Ludmila, motioned for her to stop. “Marina’s home,” he whispered. “And you haven’t told her?” “Told her what?” “That we’re together…” “Keep your voice down,” Michael glanced nervously at the house. “Lud, you’re a grown woman. We had our fun—that’s enough. I love my Marina; as soon as she came home I knew there’s no one else for me, and she loves me too.” Michael smiled sheepishly. “And me? Ivan knows about us—all the neighbours know. I got all dolled up for you…” “Well, Ivan should like it too. You’re lovely, Lud, but you’re not mine—you’re someone else’s. I’ve got my Marina—she’s a great cook and a wonderful housekeeper…” Ludmila didn’t wait to hear more. She turned sharply and left the yard. That evening, Ivan and Ludmila had “the talk.” “I’ve decided. I want a divorce. You’ve humiliated me.” Ludmila burst into tears—she felt dreadful. Ivan was her family, they’d lived together for decades; passion might have faded, but couldn’t it be rekindled? At least she knew all his quirks… “Ivan, forgive me—you were right to call me names. Clearly my mind was muddled. I understand everything now. Please, things can be good again. And what about our son’s wedding next month? Let’s be together—let’s look forward to grandchildren…” She knew Ivan’s heart was forgiving and that he loved her, in his way. Time passed, Ivan forgave her. Now they’re happy, with two wonderful grandchildren who brighten their lives whenever their son visits with his wife. As for Michael, he kept up his old tricks: with Marina away, he’d sneak off to see the widow at the far end of the village, or someone else. He never called on Ivan again; the friendship ended. Marina eventually retired, and now she and Michael live together, though their shouting matches are well known to the neighbours. As they say, every home has its own secrets. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and for all your support. Wishing you happiness and kindness!

06

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

I Never Imagined the Person Who Would Hurt Me Most Would Be My Best Friend of Over Ten Years — The One Who Slept at My House, Knew My Secrets, My Failures, My Dreams, and Whom I Trusted Unconditionally. From the Day I Met Him, I Shared Everything with Her. At First, She Pretended to Be Happy for Me, Yet Her Warnings Always Had a Strange Edge, as If Her Concern Was Masked Disapproval. Soon, She Began Comparing Him to My Exes, Saying I Always Chose the Wrong Men—Every Sign Became a Red Flag in Her Eyes. Then One Night, After Seeing Them Whispering When I Returned from the Bathroom, She Said He Was ‘Too Friendly’ with Her and That Seemed Suspicious. After That, She Grew Jealous Whenever I Spent Time With Him, Claiming I Was Losing Myself and Abandoning Her for a Man. Eventually, She Showed Me Supposed Comments Hinting at His Past with Other Women—Rumours and Out-of-Context Posts, But No Proof. When I Pressed Her, She Said She Didn’t Want to Hurt Me but Couldn’t Stay Silent. I Started to Doubt Everything, Argued Constantly With Him, Searched His Phone, Until We Broke Up After Pointless Fights. A Month Later, I Discovered My ‘Best Friend’ Was Now Seeing Him—First She Said It Was to ‘Clear the Air’, Then That They’d Just Met for Coffee, Until Finally She Admitted They Were Seeing Each Other Regularly. She Never Apologised, Telling Me I Had Only Myself to Blame. He Said, ‘I Only Did What You Couldn’t Hold On To’. That’s When I Realised This Wasn’t Concern—It Was Jealousy. She Couldn’t Stand to See Me Happy With Something She Lacked. Now, I Have Neither a Boyfriend Nor a Best Friend, But I Have Clarity: I Lost Two Relationships, but Gained the Comfort of Knowing Not Everyone Sitting Beside You Wants to See You Succeed—Some Are Just Waiting for the Right Moment to See You Fall.