Sometimes the people you’d move mountains for are the same ones who hand you a shovel and expect you to keep digging. I learned that lesson the hard way at 35, in a friend’s kitchen, staring at a piece of paper that made my stomach drop.
I’ve always been the kind of person who shows up. When my friends need me, I’m there, no matter what.
Maybe it’s because I’m single and don’t have kids of my own, or maybe it’s just who I am. Either way, that’s exactly how I’ve always been with Claire.
We’ve been best friends since university, over a decade of shared secrets and late-night phone calls. Even though I live in England now and she’s settled in America, we’ve never let distance weaken what we have.
At least, that’s what I thought.
I’ve used countless holiday days over the years to visit Claire. When she got married five years ago, I was right there beside her, playing piano during the ceremony because she asked me to.
When her first baby came, I flew out to help with the transition.
Three years ago, I did the same thing when she was pregnant with her second child. I’ve been “Auntie Maya” to both her kids since they could talk.
We text almost daily and talk on video calls every week.
She knows everything about me, including my dating disasters, and the woman I hate at work. Meanwhile, I know everything about her sleepless nights and her worries about being a good mother.
“I’ll come help,” I told her during one of our calls. “Just like before. We can figure out the timing once you’re closer.”
Her relief was evident. “Maya, you’re an absolute angel. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
By June, we had it all planned out.
Claire was due in mid-July, so I booked two weeks off work and a flight to New York.
The plan was simple. I’d arrive a week before her due date to help with the final stretch of pregnancy, keep her company, and maybe take the kids to the park so she could rest. Then, after the baby came, I’d stay another week to help with the adjustment period.