A Meeting with an Aftertaste of Pain
The other day, on my way back from the shops, I bumped into an old acquaintance. We hadn’t seen each other in years—once, we’d chatted like neighbours, sharing bits of news, before life pulled us apart. She greeted me with a bright smile, hugged me as if no time had passed, and suggested we sit on a bench by the park. *Let’s catch up,* she said. I agreed. Little did I know, that conversation would leave a scratch on my soul.
We started talking.
I told her I’d been married for three years, that my husband and I had two lovely children—the youngest just turned one. I was on maternity leave, enjoying motherhood. I spoke openly, warmly—after all, this felt like someone I could trust. But as I spoke, her expression shifted. Her smile twisted, her eyes darkened, and a strange weariness mixed with irritation crept into her gaze.
At first, I thought maybe she was just in a mood. Then, with a bitter edge to her voice, she said:
*“Well, look at you. Had kids and still slim as a pin. Hard to believe, really.”*
It was wrapped in a forced laugh, but her tone dripped with envy—almost malice. I gave an awkward chuckle, tried to steer the conversation elsewhere, but tension hung thick between us. Every word I said seemed to needle her.
When I mentioned I had to leave—*got to pick up my eldest from school*—she tossed a careless remark over her shoulder:
*“Lucky you. Husband, kids… everything just falls into place, doesn’t it?”*
Then she stood abruptly and walked off. I stayed on that bench, drenched in cold discomfort.
I knew she had one son—well into his thirties now. Rumours had reached me before: he wouldn’t work, refused to live alone, still clung to her like a millstone. There’d been whispers of drugs, bad company. No plans to marry, a difficult temper. But to her, he had always been her world.
That’s why my happiness stung her so much. Envy—raw, jagged envy. I hadn’t provoked it. I hadn’t bragged. Just answered.
Now I understand: not everyone can bear to hear about another’s joy. Especially when their own has crumbled. I’m not to blame for her son’s failures. I didn’t seek her out to compare lives—she came to me.
Days have passed, but the weight of that meeting lingers. That talk was like a poisoned sweet—sugar first, then bile.
Maybe my mistake was being too open. Sometimes, you want to share your happiness but forget that not every smiling face is sincere. Not everyone who greets you kindly is glad for your good fortune.
Now I know for certain: happiness is a quiet river. Best not to flaunt it. Not everyone deserves to hear your joys—because sometimes, behind your smile, all they see is a mirror of their own pain.
