A Meeting with a Bitter Aftertaste
The other day, while walking home from the shops, I bumped into an old acquaintance. We hadn’t seen each other in years—back then, we used to chat like neighbours, sharing news, but life pulled us apart. She greeted me with a bright smile and hugged me as if no time had passed. She suggested we sit on a bench near the park for a proper catch-up, and I agreed. At the time, I had no idea that conversation would leave a mark on me.
We started talking. I told her I’d been married for three years now, with two wonderful children—my youngest just turned one. I’m on maternity leave, enjoying motherhood. I spoke openly, warmly—after all, she seemed like someone I could confide in. But as I talked, her expression shifted: her smile stiffened, her eyes darkened, and her gaze turned almost weary, tinged with irritation.
At first, I thought maybe she was just in a bad mood. But then she said something with such pointed sarcasm that it made me uneasy:
*”Well, aren’t you lucky? Two kids and still as slim as a girl… wouldn’t even guess it.”*
Her tone was mockingly light, but there was envy beneath it, almost spite. I forced a weak smile and tried to change the subject, but the tension hung between us. Everything I said seemed to stir a quiet resentment in her.
When I mentioned needing to leave—my eldest was finishing school soon—she gave a dismissive shrug and muttered before walking off:
*”You’ve got it all, haven’t you? A husband, kids… just pure luck, I suppose.”*
And then she was gone. I sat there, chilled, as if doused in cold water. I knew her son—her only child—was in his thirties now. Years ago, I’d heard whispers of his struggles: refusing work, dependent on her, even getting mixed up with drugs at one point. He had no interest in settling down, and his temper was difficult. But to her, he had always been everything—her reason for living.
That’s why my happiness must have cut so deep. She saw what she didn’t have—a family, children, a life that, to her, seemed effortlessly bright. It wasn’t envy disguised. It was raw. And though I hadn’t bragged or goaded her, my simple answers had been enough to sting.
Now I realise: not everyone can bear to hear about someone else’s joy. Especially when their own life has crumbled. I didn’t cause her pain—she sought me out. But that doesn’t make it easier.
Days later, that meeting still weighs on me. It was like biting into a sweet only to find poison inside.
Maybe my mistake was being too open. Sometimes, the urge to share happiness makes us forget that not every smile is genuine. Not everyone who’s friendly truly wishes you well.
Now I know: happiness is like a quiet river. Best kept just below the surface. Not everyone deserves to hear about your blessings—because sometimes, behind their smile, they only see a reflection of their own sorrow.
