**A Bitter-Sweet Encounter**
On my way back from Sainsbury’s the other day, I bumped into an old acquaintance. We hadn’t seen each other in years—back in the day, we’d natter over garden fences, swapping bits of gossip, before life pulled us in opposite directions. She lit up at the sight of me, hugging me tight like no time had passed, and suggested we sit on a bench by the park for a proper chinwag. Foolishly, I agreed. Little did I know that harmless catch-up would leave a sting I wasn’t prepared for.
We got chatting. I told her I’d been married three years, that my husband and I had two lovely kids—our youngest just turned one. I’m on maternity leave, soaking up all the joy (and chaos) of motherhood. I was warm, open—because, honestly, why not? She’d always been someone I could talk to. But as I prattled on, her face shifted. Her smile went lopsided, her eyes darkened, and there was this odd flicker in her gaze—some cocktail of fatigue and thinly veiled irritation.
At first, I thought maybe she’d just had a rough day. Then she hit me with a line so dripping with vinegar it made my toes curl:
“Blimey, two kids and you still look like you’ve just stepped out of a magazine. Hardly fair, is it?”
She delivered it with a laugh, but the envy was loud enough to hear over traffic. I forced a chuckle, tried steering the chat elsewhere, but the air between us had gone thick with something unsaid. Every bit of my news seemed to poke a bruise.
When I mentioned I had to dash—my eldest’s pickup time at primary school—she threw out one last barb with a careless shrug:
“Lucky you. Husband, kids—the whole picture-perfect package. Some people have all the luck.”
Then she stood abruptly and walked off, leaving me on that bench like I’d been slapped.
I knew about her son. He was well into his thirties now. From what I’d heard over the years, he’d been nothing but grief—refused to work, still lived at home, dabbled in trouble with the wrong crowd. Never so much as glanced at settling down. But to her, he was everything—her pride, her purpose.
Suddenly, it clicked. My happy little updates were salt in a wound she’d been nursing for years. Envy. That’s all it was. Not because I’d flaunted anything—just because her own story hadn’t turned out the way she’d hoped.
It’s been days, and I still feel a weight in my chest. That chat was like biting into a candy only to find something sour at the centre—sweetness first, then the aftertaste.
Maybe I was too honest. Sometimes you forget that not every smiling face is genuinely happy for you. Not everyone can hold your joy up to the light without seeing the cracks in their own.
Lesson learned: happiness is best kept like a good cup of tea—warm, comforting, and not splashed about where it might scald. Some stories aren’t meant for every ear, because behind every smile you offer, someone might just see a reflection of what they’ve lost.
