A Bitter Aftertaste
Not long ago, on my way back from the shops, I bumped into an old acquaintance. Years had passed since we last spoke—once, we’d chatted like neighbours, shared gossip, then life pulled us apart. She beamed, hugged me as if no time had gone by, and suggested sitting on a bench near the park. “Let’s catch up,” she said. I agreed. Little did I know that conversation would leave a scar on my heart.
We talked. I told her I’d been married for three years, that my husband and I had two wonderful children—our youngest just a year old. On maternity leave now, I was cherishing motherhood. I spoke openly, warmly—she seemed like someone I could trust. But as I shared, her face changed: her smile twisted, her eyes darkened, and her gaze turned oddly weary, edged with irritation.
At first, I thought perhaps she was just in a mood. Then she muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm, “Well, look at you—two kids and still as slim as a girl. Hard to believe.”
A forced smirk, but I heard the envy, almost malice. I laughed awkwardly, tried to steer the chat elsewhere, but tension thickened between us. Every word I said seemed to stir quiet fury in her.
When I mentioned needing to fetch my eldest from school, she shrugged. “Lucky you. A husband, kids… must be nice.” Then she stood abruptly and left.
I stayed on that bench, feeling drenched in ice water. I knew about her son—her only child. Over thirty, jobless, still living off her. Years of trouble: bad crowds, rumours of drugs. No plans to marry, a temper that drove people away. Yet to her, he was everything.
That’s why my happiness cut so deep. Envy—sharp, bitter. I hadn’t flaunted anything; I’d just answered her questions.
But I understand now: not everyone can bear to hear another’s joy, especially when their own life has crumbled. It’s not my fault her son turned out the way he did. I didn’t seek her out to compare fates—she came to me.
Days later, my heart still feels heavy. That talk was like a poisoned sweet—sugar first, then the sting.
My mistake? Trusting too easily. Sometimes joy begs to be shared, but not every smile is sincere. Not everyone who greets you kindly truly wishes you well.
Happiness is like a quiet stream. Best kept unseen. Not every soul deserves your story—sometimes, behind their smile, they only see the reflection of their own pain.
