After losing my first husband, I wasn’t looking for anything serious, but somehow, I ended up getting married three times in a row. In my unhealed state, I kept chasing love, hoping to find happiness again. But something strange kept happening in every marriage, leading to yet another painful divorce.
Three years ago, my husband, Michael, passed away suddenly from a heart attack. He was only 32. One moment, we were having dinner together, laughing over his joke about my terrible cooking. The next, he clutched his chest, his face twisting in agony!
I remember screaming his name, rushing to his side. My hands were shaking so badly that I almost dropped the phone as I dialed 911. But by the time the ambulance arrived, it was too late.
Losing Michael shattered me. For months, I felt like I was walking through a fog. Our home, once filled with warmth and laughter, felt cold and empty. I had gone from being a happy wife to feeling completely alone.
But Michael had always been the kind of man who believed life was too short to be sad. I knew he would have wanted me to find happiness again. So, after some time, I allowed myself to start dating.
Then, I met Ryan.
Ryan was charming, confident, and full of energy. He made me feel alive again. Unlike Michael, he was spontaneous—always planning weekend getaways, surprising me with little gifts, making even the dullest moments feel exciting.
When he proposed after just three months of dating, I was surprised. But I told myself that love didn’t have to follow a timeline, so I accepted. Maybe, just maybe, this was fate giving me a second chance.
But five months into our marriage, Ryan started acting differently. He was suddenly secretive with his phone, stepping out to take calls, keeping his screen face down on the table. He worked late often, and when he came home, there was a faint trace of perfume I didn’t wear.
I told myself I was being paranoid. But then, the photos arrived.
A plain, unmarked envelope appeared at my doorstep. Inside were crisp, clear images of Ryan at a dimly lit restaurant. His hand rested intimately on a blonde woman’s thigh. In another photo, she traced her fingers along his jaw in a way that was far too familiar.
I didn’t know who sent them, but I couldn’t ignore what I saw. That night, I confronted him.
“Look, I didn’t plan for this to happen,” Ryan said, rubbing the back of his neck.
I glared at him. “Then why did it?”
He sighed, acting as if he was the victim. “You’ve been distant. Always comparing me to Michael—”
“I never compared you to him!” I snapped.
Ryan shook his head. “Maybe we rushed into this. Maybe we should call it quits before things get worse.”
And just like that, my marriage was over.
I convinced myself it was just bad luck. Not all men were like this.
Then, I met Jason.
Jason was different. He was patient, kind, a schoolteacher who worked with special needs children. He had the warmest brown eyes, a gentle smile, and a steady presence that made me feel safe.
We took things slow. When he proposed a few months later, I felt like I was finally moving in the right direction.
But then, another envelope arrived.
More photos. More betrayal.
This time, my third husband was with a woman I recognized—his “friend” from work, the one he swore was just a colleague. When I confronted him, he didn’t confess like Ryan. Instead, he tried to gaslight me.
“The photos are out of context! Or they’re Photoshopped! I can’t believe you don’t trust me!” he shouted.
But the truth was right in front of me. My second marriage crumbled.
Heartbroken, I swore off relationships. I focused on work, my simple job as a clerk in a small company. I told myself love just wasn’t in the cards for me.
Then, Mark walked into my life.
He was a firefighter, a man of quiet strength. Protective but not possessive. For the first time in years, I felt truly safe.
When he proposed, I hesitated. But he held my hands, looked into my eyes, and promised, “I will never hurt you the way they did.”
I believed him.
Then, five months into our marriage, another envelope arrived.
This time, I didn’t open it right away. My hands trembled as I stared at it, my stomach twisting into knots. When I finally forced myself to look inside, my heart sank.
Mark was sitting at a hotel bar with a woman in a red dress, his arm around her waist.
I wanted to scream. To cry. To demand why the universe was doing this to me.
Instead, I slammed the envelope onto the kitchen counter that night. “Explain this.”
Mark turned pale. “What the hell? This isn’t what it looks like!”
I folded my arms. “Because it looks exactly like what happened in my last two marriages.”
He swore he had no idea who she was. That nothing happened. But I had seen too much, been through too much. And just like that, my third marriage was over.
I was convinced I was cursed.
Then, everything changed when I visited Margaret—Michael’s mother.
She had always been kind to me, even after Michael’s death. That afternoon, as I helped her clean, a thick, worn novel slipped from the top shelf. A few papers fluttered out.
Photographs.
The same photos I had received in those anonymous envelopes.
My heart pounded. I picked them up, my fingers ice cold. I turned to Margaret, who was humming a tune as she cleaned.
Holding up the photos, I whispered, “Where did you get these?”
She sighed, rubbing her hands together. “I took them.”
I felt like the ground had vanished beneath me. “You… what?”
Margaret met my gaze, her expression calm. “I followed them. I watched them. I needed to make sure the men in your life were worthy of you.”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
She reached for my hands. “You were Michael’s whole world. He would have wanted you to have a man who truly deserved you.”
Tears filled my eyes. I should have been furious. I should have felt violated. But instead… I felt relief. I wasn’t cursed. I wasn’t unlovable.
Instead of anger, I felt gratitude. I hugged her tightly, whispering, “Thank you.”
Then I smirked. “But if you have time to stalk my ex-husbands, why is your house such a mess?”
Margaret burst out laughing. “Sweetheart, keeping an eye on your love life has been a full-time job!”
It’s been two years since that day, and I’m married again! But wait—don’t roll your eyes just yet! This time, I took my time.
And with Margaret’s private investigator’s help, I know he’s faithful.
As I curled up next to my husband, Daniel, on the couch, I glanced at Margaret, who was sipping tea with a knowing smile.
Smirking, I whispered, “Well, at least he passed my MIL’s tests!”
For the first time in years, I truly believed I had found my forever.