My dearest Stephanie,
Once you scolded me for my ambition. Do you remember that? I understand if you don’t. It was a very long time ago. We were still in school and your boyfriend had run off to the city. He was, after all, 6 years our senior. He could do that. Anyway, even in the city he was still a nobody, a broke loser in a dead end job, and to be fair, maybe I reminded you of that too often. I loved you dearly. I wanted you to know you could do better. I remember you turning red in the face and shouting that “not everyone has to be ambitious like you are!” What a biting insult I took that to be. It astonishes me to think how badly it hurt, to be accused of being ambitious. And to think, ambition is all there is to you know.
How pitiable there is no greatness in you with which to back it up.
You may wonder why I write this letter now. The hurt was so long ago. Perhaps I have done you a disservice by not divulging that it never stopped aching. It would be impossible for me to tally up every wrong you’ve done against me after all these years, but essentially the ungratefulness with which you treated my presence in your life, I have realized, was never forgivable. I know you think me weak. I think myself weak for accepting the way you made a mockery of my compassion. I know now that surviving your tyranny, disguised as sisterly affection, takes a kind of inner strength you, for all your ambition, can only dream of. You must have seen this coming, as you cast me aside without a word when you realized you had no further use for me. I suppose that’s fine. I’m not so petty as to need to have the upper hand in the court of public opinion.
I am, however, petty enough that I want you to know: I know you are weak. I know you are insecure. I know you are not nearly as intelligent as you want everyone to believe you are. I will never forgive. I will never forget.
I remind you I was your ever faithful friend,