Lucky

We sat in the comfy chairs, in front of the fire. We talked of a host of things, lightly and irreverently. Children. Work. Mutual acquaintances. Family. It would have been cozy, except for the nervous picking at the label of the bottle of beer she drank, and the sadness hanging in the air. And the short, sad laugh that would be interjected into the conversation. "It doesn't feel real," she would say, hiccupping slightly, eyes watery. And we'd move on.

 

We talked about it, of course. Of what was happening. Of what happened to me. Of the way through, of the disbelief, the unreality of it. Not of the future, it's too soon and too scary. Of how I moved away, of not speaking to him in years and years. Of the disconnect, of the healing. Of the lack of children that had to be taken care of, told, divided evermore. "You're lucky," she said softly, looking away.

 

I've long since ceased to think of it as the worst thing that ever happened to me. It's a history, a sad blip on my life, but something that turned out for the best. Everyone has a tragedy, mine is not so bad. I no longer feel like I have "failure" stamped upon my soul.

 

But I've never thought of myself as lucky in its occurrence. As small a tragedy as it was, it was still a Bad Thing.

 

But the thing is that perhaps one of the things that makes me the most sad is that yeah, I am. In comparison, our divorces – mine was better.

 

And I never wanted to be able to say that about it, especially in comparison to a friend.