We’d been best friends since we were 12. When I became a mother, life changed—I had less time, less energy, and without meaning to, I drifted. Still, when Clara asked me to be her maid of honor, I said yes immediately, hoping it was our way back.
Then my wedding invitation arrived.
Not maid of honor. Not even bridesmaid. Just a generic guest invite.
I waited, confused. She didn’t explain. I saw her bachelorette photos online—everyone tagged, except me. I felt replaced.
Instead of lashing out, I apologized. I told her I’d been overwhelmed after my daughter was born, not absent out of lack of love. Days later, she replied honestly: she’d felt forgotten, like the friendship was one-sided, and she’d stepped back to protect herself.
It hurt—but she wasn’t wrong.
We talked. Slowly. I attended her wedding as a guest. During her speech, she thanked “someone who reminded me real love doesn’t disappear.” She didn’t say my name—but I knew.
A year later, she called again. She was pregnant and scared—and I was the first person she told. She asked me to be her child’s godmother. I held her hand through labor, just like she once held mine.
That’s when we both understood: motherhood hadn’t erased our friendship. It had just buried it under survival.
Sometimes love doesn’t vanish.
It just waits—for honesty, forgiveness, and the courage to reach out.
And sometimes, that’s enough to begin again.