This week’s story comes from Deborah Dera. Deborah traditionally ghostwrites articles and stories but is in the process of working on her first eBook to be released on the Kindle platform later this year.
No One Will Ever Love Her More
I feel betrayed.
I often wonder how the woman who once called herself my best friend could ignore my calls and messages, instead turning to other ‘friends.’ They’re just people she sees more often than me, now that we don’t work together. They don’t know her like I do. They don’t understand.
Still, I’m out of sight, out of mind.
Every single time I call she lets the phone go to the voice mail system. A minute or two later, she’ll text me instead of calling me back. I hate texting. Good friends don’t text. They talk.
But maybe it’s easier to keep me at arm’s distance that way.
I’ve never given less than my best to my friends. Ever. I’ve always been there for them. I was there when Deanna’s husband left her. I was there when she spent weeks crying and trying to figure out how to support her daughter. I was there when she was ready to start socializing again. I was there. I was there.
Now, there’s nobody here.
I’m the one who stayed sober on every single girls night out we had, while everyone else got to sashay around with drinks in their hands.
I’m the one who answered the phone at 3 am.
I’m the one who dropped everything to barge into the local bookstore’s coffee shop and “bump” into her to break up a date going sour.
I ran interference more times than I can count.
Now, here I am, standing in line waiting to pay respects at her grandfather’s funeral. She gave me a cursory hug, an obviously fake exclamation of excitement over seeing me (considering the circumstances this would be normal, but all of her welcomes are fake these days). She introduced me to another friend – one who walked in behind me – and then rushed to a corner to discuss some must-share gossip.
What the hell am I doing here? Showing support, for her, as she struggles with the death of someone she hated for half her life.
Her new friend is wiping a tear from her eye. I hope she understands she’ll be like Jeckyl and Hyde far longer than the average person should be after an event like this. I hope she knows how she’ll internalize the events of the past and make them all about herself, even though they’re not. I hope she has the courage to try to show her how to think it through, rather than supporting every word that comes out of her mouth.
I wait what I feel is an acceptable amount of time to sit in a funeral home viewing room. I quietly search for my car keys and then slip out the door I entered through.
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