Broken hearts at holiday parties

I recently met with an old friend at a holiday party, someone I’d known since my days as a young analyst at the bank. It’s become a ritual, meeting her at the company party and catching up on life. She showed up in a black and gold dress this year, I told her she looked lovely. She told me I hadn’t changed. But she’s the one who stayed the same, just as beautiful as she was on her wedding day. It was six years ago when she wore a traditional red and gold bridal gown and tried to welcome me at her wedding with a hug, but my pregnant belly got in the way. Six years later, at the holiday party she tried to hug me again, but I was pregnant with my second.

At the party, I ordered a glass of ice and she ordered a gin and tonic with lime. I swirled the glass to melt the ice and then brought it to my lips to cool down. My lipstick was ruined. She sipped through a paper straw, holding the glass in a perfectly manicured hand. She looked flawless.

We ranted about our husbands briefly. She talked about her work, her sister and her nieces and nephews. I talked about our home and Instagram accounts, consciously avoiding the topic of pregnancy. I didn’t know if she wanted a baby but I knew better than to ask. We sipped our drinks and noticed the people around us—some were quietly picking at their food, some were rowdy at the bar, most were standing in clusters trying to keep a conversation going. In a room filled with scattered attention, she told me that they’ve been trying. 

They’d been struggling for years and it hadn’t happened yet so, they’re trying other ways now. She let that trail off, not going into detail. She said she was angry at first, at herself maybe, but what was the point? It’s a journey, right? She smiled graciously as she said it. I smiled back, trying to find the words. 

I knew I was getting the polished version of how she was doing, the words she’d strewn together for friends. It was the palatable version, so that she could divulge just enough information to those who wanted to ask but were afraid to. And the practiced version, where she can muscle back the tears and keep the mascara on her lashes instead of streaming down her face. There we were, sipping our drinks, looking casual, trying our best to have a modern conversation about an age-old suffering. Technology provides new hope, she said. I nodded. We looked down at our lipstick stained glasses. But hearts will always break quietly.

We ended the night by rounding up our husbands and finishing our third drinks. We promised to keep in touch, even though we knew it might be another year until we saw each other again. I wanted to leave her with a kind word, but the brash music was getting in the way. I wanted to tell her that the life inside of me also didn’t happen easily, but I didn’t because it’s knowing the pain firsthand that makes it even harder to talk about. 

In saying our messy goodbyes, I lingered for just a moment too long. Maybe she could tell that I was hoping to leave her with something that I didn’t have in me to give. She stretched her arm across my shoulders and gave me a side hug, tilting her head slightly to touch mine, leaving room for my belly. I know you know, she said.

And just like that, my beautiful friend extended the grace that I was hoping to give. While all along I was trying to find the right words, maybe all we needed was a kind way to speak.