“I think it’s been enough time,” says a friend.

“Enough time?” I question back.

“Yes, you lost your mom three months ago and I think it’s time for you to move on,” she says.

I am merely twenty-eight years old. These are the words of someone who has yet to lose either of her parents. In time, she will grasp and understand her naivete.

I like to joke that I am well on my way to becoming the, “Dear Abby of Divorce.”

My inbox pings with correspondence that clearly illustrates that the heart does not heal with the rapidness of the outside world. The words a testimony to a raw pain documenting that emotional distance is the greatest distance there is.

Just today, I receive a note from a friend. I will call her, “Stella.”

“I was told I should be over this by now,” says Stella.

Just weeks before, another note makes it’s way to my inbox. In another attempt to change the name to protect the innocent, I will call this friend, “Ruby.” She speaks of feeling judged by friends who can’t grasp her marital mess.

These notes give me pause.

While my friend, “Charo” was going through her divorce. In between, our phone calls reserved for friendly respite…………I have a moment of judgement.

It is a younger me. The one not worldly or wise enough to understand divorce. It is similar to the naivete of the friend who had not yet lost a parent.

Across the phone lines I can almost visualize, “Charo’s” face. Her utter fatigue in having to explain herself through possibly the worst time of her life.

I certainly don’t mean to judge, “Charo.” It is the misplaced musings of a friendship that borders on sisterhood. Where perhaps, too much is said………not with the judgement of divorce or for the person she is, but out of fear for her happiness.

I am judging her because I recognize a sorrow in her life and instead of letting her travel through it her own way, I want her back in just the same way as I have always known her.

I would find out years later that it was not for me to say. It was her journey.

With time, I feel deep regret, apologizing again and again.

One day, I call her cell.

“I want you to know one more time how sorry I am,” I say. “I have grown up and I know better now.”

She just laughs hesitantly and says, “You’re telling me you’ve grown up in the last five years? How do you grow up at our age?”

I settle back into my seat and marinate on her shock.

“Yes,” I blurt out. “I have grown up. I hope I keep growing up. It’s the only way I will be certain that I become a better human being in life.”

 

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