After losing my first husband, I wasn’t looking for anything serious. I told myself I was fine on my own, but deep down, I was still chasing love, hoping it would find me again. I remarried three times, each time believing I had found my second chance. But something strange kept happening in every marriage—something that always led to divorce.
Three years ago, my husband, Michael, died suddenly from a heart attack. He was just 32. One moment, we were having dinner, laughing over a joke he made about my awful cooking, and the next, he was clutching his chest, his face twisted in pain.
I remember the panic that flooded me. My hands shook as I dialed 911, my voice breaking as I begged them to hurry. But by the time the ambulance arrived, it was too late. He was gone.
Losing him shattered me. I walked through life in a fog, unable to process how everything had changed in an instant. One moment, I had a loving husband and a happy home, and the next, I was alone. It took me months to even function properly again.
Eventually, I decided I had to move forward. Michael would have wanted that. He was always the kind of man who believed life was too short to dwell in sadness. So, after a while, I allowed myself to date again. I wasn’t looking for anything serious, but then I met Ryan.
Ryan was charming and full of life. He made everything exciting—spontaneous weekend trips, surprise gifts, little romantic gestures. I felt alive again. So when he proposed just three months into our relationship, I hesitated but convinced myself that love didn’t always need a long timeline. I said yes.
But five months into our marriage, things changed. Ryan became secretive. He would step outside to take phone calls, keeping his phone face down on the table. He started working late and coming home smelling like a perfume I didn’t wear.
I told myself I was being paranoid. Until the photos arrived.
A plain, unmarked envelope showed up at our door. Inside were crisp, clear pictures of Ryan in a dimly lit restaurant with a blonde woman. His hand was resting intimately on her thigh. In another, she was touching his face, laughing with him in a way that made my stomach drop.
I confronted him that night.
“Look, I didn’t plan for this to happen,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “But you’ve been so distant, always comparing me to Michael—”
“I never compared you to him!” I snapped, my voice shaking.
He sighed, acting like this was something that had simply happened to him rather than something he had done. “I think we rushed into this. Maybe we should end things before it gets worse.”
I was too numb to argue. Our divorce was quick. I convinced myself it was just bad luck.
Then I met Jason.
Jason was different. He was patient and kind, a school teacher who worked with special needs children. His warm brown eyes held a quiet gentleness that made me believe I could trust again. We took our time, and when he proposed, I thought maybe I had finally found the right person.
But just months into our marriage, another envelope arrived.
More photos. More betrayal.
This time, it was Jason with a woman I recognized—his “friend” from work, the one he swore was just a colleague. When I confronted him, he tried to gaslight me.
“I can’t believe you don’t trust me,” he said, shaking his head. “These photos are out of context. They could be fake!”
But I had seen enough. Another marriage, another failure.
After that, I swore off love. I focused on work, told myself that relationships weren’t for me. But then I met Mark.
Mark was a firefighter. Strong, protective, steady. He made me feel safe in a way I hadn’t in years. When he asked me to marry him, I hesitated again.
“I will never hurt you the way they did,” he promised.
I believed him.
And then, five months in, another envelope arrived.
I knew what was inside before I even opened it. My hands trembled as I pulled out the photos—Mark at a hotel bar, his arm around a woman in a red dress.
I confronted him immediately.
“Explain this,” I said, throwing the envelope on the counter.
He paled as he looked through the photos. “What the hell? This isn’t what it looks like!”
“It looks exactly like what happened in my last two marriages.”
He swore up and down that the woman was just a family friend, but I had heard it all before. And just like that, my third marriage crumbled.
I started to believe I was cursed.
Then, everything changed when I visited Michael’s mother, Margaret.
She had always been kind to me, even after Michael’s death. One day, while helping her clean, a thick novel fell from her bookshelf. Something slipped from its pages.
Photographs.
The same photos I had received in those anonymous envelopes.
My breath caught in my throat. I searched the house until I found her in the kitchen.
I held up the pictures, my voice barely above a whisper. “Where did you get these?”
She sighed, rubbing her hands together. “I took them.”
I felt like the ground had been ripped from beneath me. “You… what?”
She 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 was speechless.
She reached for my hands. “You were Michael’s whole world, sweetheart. He would have wanted you to have a man who truly deserved you.”
Tears burned my eyes. I should have been furious. I should have felt betrayed. But instead, I felt relief. It wasn’t just me. I wasn’t unlovable. I wasn’t cursed.
Instead of anger, gratitude flooded me. I hugged her tightly. “Thank you.”
Then I laughed as a thought struck me. “If you had time to stalk my husbands, why is your house always a mess?”
Margaret chuckled. “Sweetheart, looking out for you has been a full-time job!”
I laughed along with her.
It’s been two years since that day, and guess what? I’m married again.
Before you shake your head at me, hear me out!
This time, I took my time. I really got to know him. And with Margaret’s private investigator’s help, I knew for sure he was faithful.
As I curled up beside my husband, Daniel, on the couch, he pulled me into his arms, warm and steady. Across the room, Margaret sipped her tea, watching us with a knowing smile.
I smirked. “Well, he passed all the tests of my MIL.”
For the first time in years, I truly believed I had found my forever.
