She Asked for My Ex’s Cell Number….That Was the End of Our Best Friendship

Sandra Deannza Newsome
11 min readOct 23, 2021
Photo by Dominic Sansotta on Unsplash

Eighteen years. For eighteen years, she was a friend. Not just a friend…a sister. We often joked how we would have to kill each other if we stopped being friends because we knew too much about each other. We were each other’s human diary. She wasn’t my only close sister friend but one who I never thought I had to doubt…ever. I will refer to her as D.

I held her hand calming her down when her heart was breaking. So many times — so many stories of being physically assaulted by her meth addicted husband, M. Shook my head when she explained how she carelessly hunted down said husband to start fights with him (often with her small children in the car) knowing it would send him into a fury resulting in a physical altercation right in front of these small children. I told her she needed to leave him alone when he was like that. She wasn’t accomplishing anything and traumatizing her children. Instead of getting angry, she would agree to stop…until the next time that resulted the same. Then she promised not to do it again. I worried about her when she was arrested for a physical fight between her and M. It resulted in the cops tasering her on her front porch as her toddler boys cried from the front door window. I could go on and on but I feel anyone can get the gist of her life.

She was the first person I searched for the night my significant other of ten years decided to push me down a flight of steps. I intend to go into more detail in another story, but here is the CliffNotes version: I approached him about a never-ending issue with another woman, he got mad, I got up from the table to walk away, he followed me, he put his hand on the small of my back and pushed me. Using my quick reflexes, I grabbed the railing and while hanging upside down, he stomped on my upper arm to try and force me to fall down the steps. I got away and he warned me to not come back home that night. Before I went to my friend, S’s house, I called D. She — it was her I called and talked to first. It had to be her before anyone.

I spent weekends with her, watched her children, mildly gossiped and laughed with her. I helped her with homework, resumes, laundry, and cooking. We smoked cigarettes and drank beer together. Her pets were like my own and her house always felt like home when…

Sandra Deannza Newsome

Part vagabond; part CEO — I believe telling and sharing stories are great gifts we can give each other. My writing interests are almost everything.