I'm a 43-year-old woman. Since kindergarten, I had a special bond with my best male friend. Though we were very different in character, we were inseparable for years. I met my (now ex) husband at 18, got married, and had two kids. He married his high school girlfriend and had one child. My marriage was calm and stable, while his was stormy—marked by infidelity, mostly on his side. Despite that, he loved his wife deeply, and I respected the way he chose to live.

Over the years, our differences never came between us. We could talk about anything and had genuine love for each other. After my divorce 13 years ago, our friendship grew stronger and, after a year, also became sexual. For him, it was a secret; for me, it was a safe space during a messy divorce. He remained devoted to his wife, and I never asked him to leave her. I knew I could never trust him as a partner, but as a friend, he meant the world to me. Ironically, having me calmed him down and helped him stay 'faithful' to his wife. This situation lasted 10 years.

We often discussed the "after"—what would happen once the sexual part ended. He always promised our friendship would remain, that it was the most important relationship in his life. But two years ago, he lost two close family members. We all supported him deeply, but grief changed him. He became bitter, angry, and lashed out at everyone who cared. He wanted control over every relationship and pushed people away. During this time, he met a 27-year-old bartender. At 43, he acted like a victim around her, and she accepted his behavior.

For over a year, he secretly had three women in his life, including me. I always said he could do what he wanted—we weren’t a couple—but honesty was a must. Instead, he lied to me for a year. I felt something was off and started journaling my thoughts, which he knew. When he finally confessed, he wasn’t sad or remorseful—he laughed. He left everything behind to be with a much younger woman who encouraged him to cut off those who truly cared.

I no longer wanted the sexual part, but I still loved him as my best friend. I told him I didn’t approve of his choice—not out of jealousy, but because I have a daughter in her twenties. It felt wrong. I hoped he’d come to his senses and return to his wife. We argued constantly. He yelled, insulted me, and still I stayed, hoping to salvage our friendship. I cried often, sank into depression, but kept writing—it was the only place I could express myself truthfully. I dreamed of one day turning our story into a book for myself, for closure.

When he learned I was still writing, he got angry. He accused me of trying to expose him, though I never planned to share it publicly. He called me a freak and said this was the final reason to cut me off for good. Despite his promises, everything I did, and all we shared—he vanished. It’s been two months. I know I’ll never hear from him again.

But I kept writing. And I’ve become proud of what I created. He’s living a lie, still painting me as the villain. But I no longer care what he thinks.

Am I the asshole for not wanting this story to stay only mine? For choosing to be proud of it—and no longer afraid of his opinion?