My former college friend reached out after eight years saying she missed me and wanted to reconnect — and the afternoon she casually mentioned she was developing a podcast about a woman who rebuilt her life after a devastating betrayal, I asked her very pleasantly whose story she planned to tell.
Her name was Corrine. We had been close during our junior and senior years, the kind of friends who shared everything — late nights studying, bad decisions, secrets. Then, eight years ago, everything fell apart, and Corrine was not the innocent bystander she always pretended to be.
The messages had started in February. Warm, nostalgic, full of “I’ve been thinking about you” and “I miss who we were.” She asked about my daughter, Nadia, who was six the last time Corrine had seen her. She asked about my mother, Ruth, who had spent years quietly helping me rebuild after what happened. I was cautious but not unkind. I answered in short paragraphs. I did not volunteer anything she didn’t already ask.
What happened eight years ago was this: I came home from a weekend work trip to find that my then-boyfriend, Derek, had moved out. Not just left — moved out. Took the furniture we had bought together, drained the joint account we shared for household expenses, which at the time held $4,200, and left a note on the kitchen counter that said only “I’m sorry, this isn’t working.” I later found out he had been seeing someone for nearly a year. That someone turned out to be a mutual friend from our college circle. Not Corrine — but Corrine had known. She had known for months and said nothing.
I didn’t confront her then. I was too busy surviving. My mother, Ruth, let me and Nadia move into her spare bedroom. I took on extra freelance work. I put $18,500 in credit card debt on a balance transfer and spent the next two years paying it off while also rebuilding my professional reputation from scratch. There was no dramatic breakup scene with Corrine. She just slowly stopped returning my calls, and eventually I stopped making them.
So when her messages started arriving in February, I read them carefully. I appreciated the warmth on the surface. But I also noticed the questions. She wanted to know what I did now. She asked if I had ever “written about” what I went through. She asked if Nadia and I were “doing okay, finally.”
Finally.
Then, in April, she mentioned the podcast. She described it as a passion project — a narrative series about a woman who experienced a profound personal betrayal in her mid-twenties, lost nearly everything, and slowly rebuilt her life with the help of her family. She said she found the story “genuinely compelling” and believed it could resonate with a wide audience.
I read that message twice. Then I typed back, very pleasantly: “That sounds like a really interesting concept. Whose story is it?”
There was a pause of almost three days before she replied.
When she did, she said it was “inspired by” several people she knew and that she had “always admired” how I had handled what happened to me. She said she hoped I would be open to a conversation. She said she thought it could be “healing” for both of us.
I did not respond immediately. Instead, I called my mother, Ruth, and read her the entire exchange out loud. Ruth was quiet for a moment and then said, “She wants your pain and she wants your permission, and she’s hoping you’re too flattered to notice she’s asking for both at the same time.”
My mother, Ruth, has always been the clearest thinker in any room.
I also called my daughter, Nadia, who is fourteen now and sharper than I was at twice her age. Nadia listened and said, “Mom, she ghosted you for eight years and now she wants a podcast deal. Do not help her.”
I thought about what I actually had. I had spent those eight years doing the quiet work. I had paid off every dollar of that $18,500. I had built a small but stable consulting practice. I had written, privately, extensively, about what happened — not for anyone else, but because writing had always been how I processed things. I had three years of journal entries, a folder of essays, and the kind of earned perspective that only comes from actually living through something rather than observing someone else live through it.
I wrote back to Corrine. I told her I appreciated her reaching out. I told her I wished her well with the project. And I told her that I had, in fact, been developing my own memoir for the past year and a half, and that I had recently signed a letter of intent with a small independent press.
That last part became true approximately six weeks after I sent the message, when I submitted a proposal and received an offer. I had been sitting on the idea for a long time. Corrine’s inquiry clarified something I had been waiting to feel ready for.
She never responded to my message. The podcast, as far as I can tell, was never made.
My story was always mine to tell. I just needed someone to remind me not to give it away.
