“Twenty thousand? For a jumper?! Emily, couldnt you have told me sooner?”
“Its handmade, one-of-a-kind. Millions of stitches! I spent three weeks on itpoured my heart into it,” Emily retorted, her fingers tightening around the kraft bag as if it held something precious rather than a simple knitwear piece.
“You could buy five jumpers for that price and still have enough left for a hat and gloves!” Charlotte gasped, recoiling as if the bag contained a live grenade.
“So my times worth nothing, then?” Emily shot back, her voice sharp.
Anger and confusion surged through Charlotte. She was the one whod started this messasking Emily for the jumper in the first place. But who couldve guessed it would end like this?
—
The two had been friends since secondary school. Both came from comfortable, unremarkable familiesno fairy-tale fortunes, but no tragedies either. Life had been ordinary. Predictable.
Then their paths diverged.
Charlotte married a man a decade older, well-off, with parents who ran a modest construction firm. His inheritance gave him a solid start, and hed grown it steadily. To outsiders, it looked like shed hit the jackpotbut appearances deceived.
He earned well. He spent just as recklessly. His job demanded long hours, sudden weekend calls, and a sharp tone with subordinates. He needed an outlet.
Food. Hobbies. Takeaway sushi, gourmet pizzas, restaurant meals. Occasionally, hed settle for mashed potatoes and a cutletbut not often.
At first, she cooked separately. Then she tried matching his extravagant tastes. Soon, she gave upthree or four hours each evening just to prep dinner? Impossible.
“Stop nagging him,” her mother chided. “Its his money. Hes used to this lifelet him be.”
So she did.
The spending didnt stop at food. His hobbies bled cash too. Board games, collectible editionseach set easily topped a thousand pounds, with expansions doubling the cost. Weekends meant hosting friends for all-day sessions, feeding them on his dime.
The house itself was another drain.
They lived well, sure. But rolling in gold? Far from it.
Emilys life couldnt have been more different. She married a penniless student who wrote her poetry and twisted foil into roses. Years passed, but Michael never changedhopping between customer service and hardware store jobs, shrugging off ambition.
“We manage. If we dont, we cut back. Millions live like thiswell scrape by.”
They *did* scrape byuntil the second baby arrived. Benefits were meagre. Emily drowned in nappies and night feeds while Michael failed to land anything better.
“I cant take it. Soon well be using cloth nappies. And the baby? Formulas not cheap,” she confessed.
“Em, dont rely on Michael,” Charlotte said bluntly. “Why not earn from home? A friend bakes gingerbread. Another knits toys. Youre brilliant at this.”
“Brilliant” was an understatement. Emilys family saved a fortune on clothes because she crafted everythingsocks, dresses, cardigans, even handbags.
She threw herself into it, snapping photos of her work and posting ads. But no orders came.
“Nobody wants handmade anymore. Theyd rather buy cheap rubbish,” she sighed after a month.
Charlottes chest tightened. Handouts felt demeaning, so she decided to commission something instead.
Truthfully, she *hated* knitwear. Her grans scratchy jumpers had left her traumatiseditchy, stiff, unbearable in winter.
But this wasnt about the jumper. It was about helping.
She scrolled through patterns, settling on a simple but elegant design.
“Can you make this? If so, give me a rough priceIve no idea whats fair.”
“Of course. Ill tally the yarn cost first,” Emily promised.
That tally never came. Between the kids and “out-of-stock yarn,” she delayedfinally declaring shed charge by the hour.
“Dont worry. Ill give you a discount. Well sort it out.”
Charlottes gut twisted. Why couldnt she just name a figure? But it was too late to back out.
Now here they were. Emily stood there, clutching the bag, proudwhile Charlottes stomach dropped. Twenty grand for a jumper she didnt even want. No agreement, no warning.
“Em, I cant afford this,” she finally said, voice thin.
She *could* pay. But she felt trapped. Refusing meant hurting her friend. Accepting meant overpaying for something shed never wear. Worseshe suspected Emily had inflated the price. No wonder she had no customers.
Emilys face darkened. Her lips pressed into a line, cheeks flushing.
“Are you *kidding* me? I slaved over this! My *back* hurts, my *eyes* are shot! And youve left me *out of pocket*I bought the yarn myself!”
Silence. Charlotte swallowed hard. She knew the effort knitting took. But how did they fix this? An invisible wall had risen between them.
“Look. Ill pay for the yarn and your timebut not that much. Seven hundred. Thats my limit. Keep the jumper if you want. Sell it elsewhere.”
“Take your bloody money,” Emily muttered, snatching the cash. “And the jumper. Youre living off your husbandId drown in it.”
She shoved the bag at Charlotte and stormed off. For a moment, Charlotte just stared at the closed door. Today, she hadnt just lost money. Shed lost a friend. A piece of her past.
She didnt even unwrap the jumper. Straight into the wardrobe it went. Shed never wear it. Some might say it carried “bad energy.” Charlotte just knew it would always remind her of the wound now festering inside her.
That evening, she confessed everything to Andrew. He listened, unfazed, then shrugged.
“Well, theres the price of friendship. Happens all the time. Mix money with mates, and you lose both.”
She exhaled heavily. Hed been here before, clearly.
Eventually, she gave the jumper to her mother. Soft as down, it still prickednot her skin, but her soul. Emily vanishedblocked on every platform. Charlotte didnt reach out.
Theyd crossed that fragile line where friendship evaporates, leaving only memories of how things once were. And the bitter knowledge that theyd never be that way again.
