It is strange that friendships, which nourish and sustain us and often provide our deepest source of connection, lack the sort of standards that are routine in romantic relationships

I have this friend, Sarah. Since meeting in our thirties, we’ve shared many of life’s essentials: hairdressers, dog-walkers, phobias (airplanes and mice), health scares, worries over our kids, and insomnia caused by husbands who snore. But lately I’m aware that whenever Sarah calls I feel a tightness in my chest and, more often than not (thanks to caller ID), I don’t pick up the phone. I feel guilty, but that’s preferable to spending hours listening to Sarah complain. I’ve been meaning to tell her how I feel, but I haven’t quite worked up the nerve. Most of the time I feel like a bad boyfriend.

We became inseparable and, at one point, I secretly tried to find out if it was possible to be adopted by your best friend’s family if your own parents were still alive. It wasn’t until college and postcollegiate life on opposite sides of the country that we drifted apart. But we never lost touch and, years later, when I moved with my husband to the city where Natalie lives, she seemed thrilled. She threw a dinner party in our honor and did everything possible to make us feel at home. Then, after about six months, Natalie suddenly stopped calling, and whenever I tried to make a date find San juan wife she claimed she was too busy and got off the phone, fast. To this day-ten years later-I have no idea why she gave me the boot. Now when our paths cross, we greet each other like distant acquaintances and I feel bruised all over again.

If your significant other stops calling, makes impossible demands, or treats you like roadkill, you deal with it. (suite…)