I kept reading because pretending I hadn’t seen it wouldn’t unsee it.
The chat wasn’t occasional. It was routine.
A running commentary on my life like I was a show they hated but couldn’t stop watching.
When I lost my first nursing job because of budget cuts, they didn’t ask if I was okay.
They celebrated.
They wrote, “Called it.”
They joked about how long it would take before I begged for help.
When I started dating my ex-husband, they treated it like a bedding bracket.
“Under a year.”
“18 months.”
“2 years if you’re feeling generous.”
Then I saw the line that turned my stomach into ice.
When I got engaged, my sister wrote:
“Starting the divorce pool now.”
People piled in like it was a harmless game. Numbers, confidence, smirking little predictions.
My mother pretended to scold them, then joined in.
I searched by date because I needed to know what they said when my life actually cracked open.
