You Were Never My Friend,” Said the Neighbor as She Tore the Letter in Half

**Diary Entry 12th May**

*”You were never my friend,” said Margaret, tearing the letter in two.*

The words echoed in the narrow hallway as I stood frozen in my doorway, watching the scraps of paper flutter to the floor. My heart pounded as if Id run a marathon, though Id only climbed the stairs to the third floor.

“Margaret, pleasejust listen,” I pleaded.

“Whats left to say?” She turned her back to me, fumbling with her keys. “Its all there in that letter of yours.”

Kneeling, I gathered the torn pieces with trembling fingers. The ink had smudgedor was it my own tears?

“Margie, love, just hear me out”

“Dont call me that. Its *Margaret* to you now.”

The door slammed so hard the windowpanes rattled. I was left alone, clutching the shreds of what had been a confessionmy own words thrown back at me.

Leaning against the wall, I tried to steady myself. How had it come to this? Just this morning, wed shared tea in my kitchen, complaining about the new downstairs neighbour who played music too loud. Now

I retreated to my flat and sat at the kitchen table. A copy of the letter lay therethe one Id written three nights ago in a fit of despair.

That evening, Id had a scarea tightness in my chest, a fear I might collapse alone in the hallway. My son lives in America, my daughter in Manchester, and my husbands been gone for years. When the pain eased, I sat at the computer and poured everything onto the pagethe loneliness, the fear of dying without a soul to notice. And then, the words I now regretted most: *Youre lucky, Margie. Your children visit. Your grandchildren fill your home. Im just an old thing gathering dust. If Im honest, I envy you.*

In the cold light of morning, Id meant to bin it. But then my daughter rang, unloading her own burdenswork stress, her husbands drinking. The call ended badly, and in my distress, I posted the letter. To Margaret. My only friend.

Now, I felt like a fool.

Through the wall, I heard her moving aboutthe clatter of cups, the whistle of the kettle. Ordinarily, wed be sharing tea about now. Shed bring biscuits; Id brew it strong. Wed chatter about nothing and everything.

Pressing my ear to the wall, I listened. The familiar sounds, once comforting, now twisted like a knife.

I reread the letter. Yes, it was foolish. Yes, Id hurt her. But was fifteen years of friendship really so fragile?

Wed met when I first moved in. My husband was ill then, and Margaret had helpedfetching prescriptions, sitting with him when I needed respite. After his funeral, she was the one who kept me from drowning in grief. Wed weathered so much togetherillnesses, holidays, the small and large sorrows of life. And now, because of a wretched letter

I rang my daughter.

“Mum? Im at work”

“Ive had a row with Margaret. A proper one.”

“Then make up. Youre grown women.”

“She wont speak to me. Said I was never her friend.”

“Honestly, MumIve a meeting in ten. Well talk tonight.”

The line went dead. I wasnt angryshe *was* busy. But the weight of having no one to turn to crushed me.

That evening, I heard voices in the hall. Margaret had brought someone homea woman I didnt know.

“Come in, Lydia,” Margaret said brightly. “Ill put the kettle on.”

“Wont the neighbours mind?”

“Oh, theyre a miserable lot. Theres one upstairsalways complaining. Musics too loud, the halls too dirtynever satisfied.”

I stood by the door, my cheeks burning. So thats what she thought of me.

The next morning, I baked sconesMargarets favourite. Knocking on her door, I whispered, “Margaret, please. Can we talk?”

Silence. Then, finally: “Theres nothing to discuss.”

I left the scones outside. By evening, they were gonebut the plate returned, scrubbed clean, with a note: *Thank you. M.*

Days dragged. The flat felt emptier than ever. My daughter rang out of duty; my son hadnt called in months.

Then, in the shop, I met Lydia.

“Youre Margarets neighbour, arent you?” she asked.

I nodded. “Youre her friend?”

“An old colleague. Shes been kindhelps with my grandson.” A pause. “Shes upset, you know. About your falling-out.”

“*She* is?”

“Quite terribly. Says fifteen years of friendship shouldnt end over one letter.”

My pulse quickened. “Did she really say that?”

Lydia nodded. “But shes too proud to admit it. Afraid youll turn her away.”

That night, I knocked again.

“Margaret, I know youre there. Lets stop this silliness.”

A creakshe was listening.

“Lydia told me youre hurting too. Margie, were *friends*. Fifteen years cant be undone by one stupid letter.”

The lock clicked. The door opened. There she stoodeyes red-rimmed.

“Come in,” she said. “Ill make tea.”

We sat awkwardly at first, then

“Remember when we met?” Margaret chuckled. “Your grocery bag split on the stairs. Potatoes everywhere.”

“And you helped me gather them,” I said. “Then invited me for tea.”

We laughed. The ice thawed.

“Claire,” she said softly, “some of what you wrote wasnt wrong. I *do* have it easier. And I forget that sometimes.”

I squeezed her hand. “We both made mistakes. But were here now.”

We talked till lateabout everything and nothing at all.

As I left, Margaret murmured, “I shouldnt have torn that letter.”

“Why?”

“To remember how precious friendship is. And how easily its lost over pride.”

I nodded. The lesson was learned. And the scraps of that letter? Gone for goodjust as well. Some words arent worth keeping.

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