During my pregnancy I met a girl, a few years younger than myself, at child birthing class. She had recently reconciled with her mom, whom she had not spoken to in five years, and moved back home from Florida after finding herself pregnant with an ex-boyfriends baby. We were due two weeks apart and became fast friends. She would frequently make the drive to our apartment (45 minutes is a LONG drive in Rhode Island) just to knit and watch girly TV with me. My friends loved her and quickly embraced her as the newest member of our circle.
When her son was born, I visited her in the hospital twice. He was the first newborn I had ever held and he was perfect. Tiny perfect ankles, tiny perfect elbows, a wrinkly little face that earned him the nickname Mr. Magoo. I fell in love instantly and secretly feared that I wouldn't feel the same about the baby still growing inside of me. (Fears wholly unfounded, I'd soon learn.)
During those early days of motherhood, we would often text message each other "You up?" at all hours of the night. We celebrated the little first together. He smiled. She can hold her head up. He slept through the night. And we cried over the little frustrations together.
She was the kind of friend that I could tell anything to and would have done anything for. And then Poker Night happened. Suffice it to say that amongst the partying, $60 went missing from my friends wallets. She was the easy target. She was going back to school, out of work, and still fighting for child support. I cut off all communication with her. When she invited me to her sons first birthday party I put the invitation in my keepsakes shoe box but didn't respond.
Today she sent me her graduation announcement. And an invitation to the party after. I miss my friend.
Bear, enjoying her first ever Valentine's Day present from Mr. Magoo.