In a storytelling workshop I learnt that people are deeply drawn to any unresolved conflict, to situations they can’t quite categorise or make sense of. Additionally, a well-built character is the sum of their actions. A character can never be entirely good or purely evil.
All of this made me think about someone from my own life. Someone who, just as much as they brightened my days, also tormented my thoughts at night.
My friend… Laura.
She and her husband were there for me during the hardest times of my life when I lost people, relationships, material things, everything. They encouraged me to dust myself off and start over. Once, her husband even offered me some money. I appreciated the gesture but refused to take it.
Laura was deeply upset by his intention. She made me feel ashamed, threw harsh words my way, and concluded that she had finally figured out what kind of woman I was. I tried to explain that I never intended to take advantage of their kindness. Her words hurt me deeply, but I felt the need to prove her wrong. And I thought I had.
In the meantime, I moved to another country and rebuilt my life. Laura and her husband had children. Whenever I visited their city, I would stop by to see them. We kept in touch over the phone.
One day, they told me they wanted to emigrate to the very country where I was living.
Her husband came first to look for a job, and then Laura and the kids followed. They all stayed with me. Laura and her family slept in my bedroom, while I was on the couch. We lived like that for a few months until they found their own place. I was just happy to finally be able to support them, as they once supported me.
I helped Laura find a job, build connections, and lay the foundation for a new life.
After they moved into their own apartment, they insisted I stay with them for a while when I was between contracts. But I could feel I was intruding, so I left soon after. And that’s when I overheard Laura say something about me that stopped me cold:
“You were never really my friend. You are my husband’s friend more than mine.”
I confronted her. I needed to know why she thought that. And if she truly felt that way, why keep up the charade for so long? Why pretend to be my friend all those years? Why was she telling me this now?
She said she wasn’t ready to have that conversation and that she’d reach out when she was. I gave her space. And I waited. Years passed. Not a word. I thought about her millions of times. I missed her laugh, our shopping trips, the happiness on her face when she was taking photos or cooking. I stalked her on social media. I dreamt of her calling me, of us talking for hours, of it all being some misunderstanding. But she never called.
Then, one day, we ran into each other at an embassy event. She was wearing a traditional blouse and red earrings. She looked beautiful. I stood there with my husband by my side and a child in my belly, making small talk with “important” people.
She saw me and smiled a wide, familiar smile that crinkled her nose the way it always did. She walked straight up to me and hugged me. Even kissed me on the cheek. Then she turned to introduce herself to the group.
“One day, we’ll talk,” she said as she was leaving.
So, I waited again. More years passed. And then, I finally found the answer to all my questions—in an interview Laura gave to a magazine.
“So, Laura,” the interviewer asked, “how was it, starting over from scratch with two small children in a foreign country? Did you know anyone there? Did anyone help you?”
“No,” Laura replied. “I didn’t know a single soul, and I didn’t receive any help from anyone.”
Period.
*The gorgeous girl in the picture is a friend of mine, not the girl in the story.