Screen of Pain
A knot tightens under my ribs, but still, I can’t tear my eyes from the glowing screen. A sharp sting, ugly and uninvited, creeps through me as my friend’s status moves from one picture to the next. They are beautiful photos. She’d gone to some resort with her husband for their anniversary. Five years married, dated longer, two kids, a boy and a girl. They look so happy. So complete.
A small smile touches my lips, but the pain sits heavy beneath it.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for them. She’s my best friend, more like an older sister. But still, the sting won’t go away. Why didn’t she tell me about their anniversary trip? Why didn’t she share the plans? I know you might think it’s none of my business, and you’re probably right… maybe. But we tell each other everything. Or almost everything. I feel on occasions like this, she will at least want to share something with me. Or tell me afterward. Not let me find out through her status.
Her status shifted again. They celebrated with another couple.
Damn. My throat burns as I stare. They could invite someone else, but not me?
I’ve known them longer. I grew up with Fiona.
It stings.
That ugly feeling twists under my ribs.
She probably thought hiding it from me was protecting me. She didn’t imagine I’d wander onto Facebook, the one place I rarely go, and feel that small, sharp betrayal. I barely even use social media. I’m a thirty-something career woman, single, never married, always the one left outside the circle.
They might have invited me if I’d been married, or if things had worked out with the man Fiona set me up with seven months ago.
“We’ll split everything down the middle,” he’d said, tapping the calculator on his phone. Then he smiled and added, “But of course, you’ll handle the cooking, cleaning, and kids. That’s tradition.”
He said it lightly, as if 'tradition' were a gift, not a chain. But it wrapped around my ribs all the same, pulling tight. He didn’t want a partner; he wanted a maid with a womb. Why would I spend my life with a man like that?
And yet… watching the happy couples in those photos, something twists in me. I start to wonder if I made a mistake. If maybe, just maybe, refusing that kind of life was the wrong choice.
If maybe I should have followed tradition after all.
No!
I want to be cherished, not chained. I want love, real love, the kind that lets me be cared for and still stand on my own two feet. I want marriage, but I’m not desperate enough to choose just anyone.
Still… seeing Fiona’s twins laughing in the background of that photo made something pinch inside my chest.
Maybe I should consider freezing my eggs before forty.
Mmm…
A slow pressure blooms beneath my ribs, stealing just a bit of my breath. I know what it is, but I will not name it. The thought disgusts me.
I want what she has.
A family. A husband who loves me. Children.
The phone grows heavier in my hand, as if it knows I don’t belong in their world.
I glance at the time, 7:17 a.m.
Great. I am going to be late.
I refuse to comment on Fiona’s status. I will pretend I didn’t see anything.
I rush to the washroom, shower, and get ready for work. Still, the twisting in my chest stays. The sadness, too. The mirror throws back a stranger: shadow pools beneath my eyes, my skin sallow under the light. I press a hand against my stomach, wishing it would flatten under my palm.
I remember my teens and early twenties: a lively face, a perfect body. I was beautiful in my own right; everyone said so. And I said no to every guy who cared about me because I wanted better. I deserved better.
My only regret is Smith.
Smith cared for me. Truly. And I cared for him, too. When he finally gathered the courage to propose, I rejected him. I was about to leave for university in another city. I thought, What if I meet someone better? I didn’t want to hurt him. He was too good a friend to lose, so I pushed him away.
Funny thing? No one ever measured up to Smith, the man I pushed away for a dream that never came. Many men proposed, but none compared to the one I rejected. Now he’s married with kids. Good for him. But I can’t help thinking... it could have been me.
Haaah…
I wish I didn’t have to go to work.
I put on my panties, my bra, and my favorite office dress. With make-up, I transform my puffy-eyed face into something bright and composed, a face that looks like it doesn’t care about anything. Make-up: the magic every woman needs sometimes.
I slip into my six-inch heels, adjust my belt, and smile at my reflection.
“Perfect.”
I grab my bag and car keys.
I tighten the belt around my waist, lift my chin, and let the heels click sharply against the floor. The mirror doesn’t argue.
I may look strong, but my heart is fragile.
I’m scared sometimes.
Lonely sometimes.
Jealous sometimes, because I can’t have what I once threw away.
Still… I want my happily ever after, whatever form it comes in.
I don’t know what my happily ever after will look like… but I know I still want it.
The End
