A few good memories don’t make them good people.
The fact of the matter is, it’s a ‘had.’ Past tense. Gone. Despite how much I may want to relish in all of our stupid college memories—downing a cheap bottle of wine on a Wednesday night, raiding each other’s closets for a night out, or even just all the inside jokes.
I envy your ability to not care nearly as much as I do. Suppression is an art form, as far as I’m concerned.
When I was eighteen, I became all too aware of the skewed, far-too indulgent details of my mother’s life.
You deserved a heads up, some sort of warning that, despite my ability to hide it all, I was broken. But you didn’t know and there were no warning signs.