Not always badly. In some dreams I was in the kitchen with Betty again, shoulder to shoulder at the island while rain hit the windows. She would be trimming pastry or stirring a sauce and say something ordinary like pass the pepper, and the whole dream would hum with the knowledge that ordinary safety had once been real. In other dreams I was back in the living room staring at the iPad, except dream-me knew already what was inside and simply watched the device glow as if waiting for my younger self to arrive and pick it up.
I stopped resenting those dreams. They felt less like haunting and more like witness.
Because here is what nobody tells you about betrayal on that scale: the worst wound is not that people lied. It is that they made you doubt your own ability to read what was in front of you. Recovery, then, is not just grieving them. It is learning to trust the sensations you once explained away. The tightening in your stomach. The sentence that lands wrong. The joke that has a blade hidden in it. The repeated coincidence that is not coincidence at all. The way love spoken by the wrong person always seems to come attached to a bill.