We finally stopped paying for her coffee and lost a "friend"

I recently discovered that one of my closest friends wasn't really a friend at all. For years, she played the struggling single mom card, constantly crying about barely making ends meet. We all felt sorry for her, helped her out, covered her expenses everywhere we went. And then she went and bought herself a brand new car. Our poor, pitiful little martyr.

Sarah and I had been friends for over five years. We met pushing strollers around the neighborhood, and we just clicked. I always felt so bad for her. Life seemed so unfair to her. Estranged from her parents, married to an absolute nightmare of a man.

At first, I just noticed things on my own—her clothes were worn, her stroller had seen better days—but I never asked. I didn't want to embarrass her. Eventually, she started opening up.

Turns out her parents were alcoholics. Three months sober, one month on a bender.

"It's actually better now," she'd say in that quiet, trembling voice of hers. "When I was little, they'd drink for six months straight. I'd get sent to my grandma's, and she was only nice in front of other people. Behind closed doors, she'd hit me for the smallest thing."

Then came the stories about her husband. Horrifying things that made my skin crawl, but she always said them like she was making excuses for him.

"He did hit me that one time, but it was my fault. I saw he'd been drinking, and I shouldn't have gotten in his way. He apologized after," she'd share, and I'd be fighting back tears.

She came over to my place all the time. We'd have coffee, chat, let the kids play together. But she never once invited me to her house. Said her husband didn't like visitors. Honestly, I had zero desire to meet the unstable man who was putting his hands on my friend.

Sarah dressed modestly—or more accurately, poorly. I'm not talking about not wearing designer labels; I don't either. But her clothes, while clean and neat, were visibly mended, worn thin in spots. Clearly years old.

"Mike says I don't have anywhere fancy to go anyway, so..." she'd start to explain, then trail off.

I tried giving her some of my things, passing along kids' clothes my daughter outgrew faster than she could wear them. At first, Sarah refused everything, insisting they had plenty. But eventually, she accepted.

We lost touch for a while when we both went back to work. New schedules, getting the kids adjusted to daycare—you know how it is. About six months later, we reconnected.

"Mike's leaving me," she said, barely holding back tears. "He says he doesn't want to be married to a boring housewife like me."

Then she broke down completely. I held her and told her it was for the best—at least no one would be hitting her anymore, and her son would be better off away from that psycho. But she was terrified about raising a child alone and surviving all of this. Of course, I decided to support her.

I brought her into my friend group, introduced her to everyone after explaining her difficult situation. The girls were moved. We all started hanging out together.

We made sure Sarah never had to pay for anything, remembering how she told us her ex said she could forget about child support—he'd only pay based on his official salary, which was basically minimum wage.

"Want to hang out today? Oh, you're going to that new brunch place with the girls? No, I can't come, I don't have the money, you know that," she'd say sadly over the phone. And of course, we'd invite her anyway and cover her tab.

"Yeah, my son's been begging to go to the water park, but not on my budget," she'd sigh when we discussed weekend plans. So we'd all chip in to make sure her boy—who already had such rotten luck with his father—could splash around and ride the slides with our kids.

"Sorry, I couldn't afford a gift, so I baked you cookies. Happy birthday," she'd say with an embarrassed smile at parties.

She never asked for anything directly, but she'd steer every conversation so it was impossible not to figure out what she needed. That only became clear after our eyes were finally opened. And they were opened when our poor, destitute Sarah—who just last month couldn't afford a movie ticket—suddenly showed up in a brand new car. Not used. Straight from the dealership. A $45,000 SUV.

Even if she financed it, that's at least a $10,000 down payment. Where does that kind of money come from when you're supposedly on the brink of poverty? Just days ago, she was saying she couldn't buy her kid a $5 treat from Target without feeling like a terrible mother.

We congratulated her on the purchase and asked how she managed it. She didn't answer. Then she blocked all of us. Everywhere.

I guess the friendship's over. She got everything she wanted from us. Probably out there right now looking for a new group of friends to work on.

And now I can't stop wondering: how much of anything she ever told me was actually true?