For ten years, I’ve worked at the same company in the quiet town of Pinebridge, and in all that time, I’ve never fallen out with anyone. I’ve always made an effort to stay on good terms with my colleagues, keeping relationships warm and friendly. But with Imogen, things were different. We bonded over shared passions—gardening and weekends in the countryside. We became close friends, our families grew tight, and our husbands got along famously. Now, though, her selfishness is tearing our friendship apart, and I’m left wondering: should I forgive her or cut her out of my life for good?
Last year, my husband and I finally realised our dream—we bought a cottage just outside Pinebridge. We poured our hearts into fixing it up and started inviting friends over. Imogen and her husband were regular guests, visiting twice already this year. I loved sharing our cosy retreat with her, but I never imagined she’d start treating it like her own.
The trouble began when I managed to secure three weeks off work—a rare chance to unwind and tackle some odd jobs around the cottage before winter. My plan was to tidy up the garden, winter-proof the house, and return to the office on the 12th of November. But the 11th was Imogen’s birthday, and as it turned out, she’d decided—without asking—that she’d celebrate it at my place.
The whole thing was absurd. With barely any phone signal at the cottage, Imogen couldn’t reach me. Instead of double-checking, she took my silence as a yes. Meanwhile, I was knee-deep in weeding, cleaning, and preparing for winter—hosting a party was the last thing on my mind. I only found out about her plans when I got back to town. She rang me and simply announced, “We’re celebrating at yours! Get ready—fifteen people are coming.”
I was stunned. My husband flat-out refused. The cottage wasn’t set up for guests—the sauna was half-built, tools were stashed away, and the garden was shut down for the season. Worse, I only knew half the people on her guest list. Strangers tramping through my home? No way. And then there was the thought of decorating, cooking, and cleaning up after a rowdy crowd—all the day before I was due back at work.
I steadied myself and explained why it wouldn’t work. Imogen went silent, her face twisting in shock and hurt. She hadn’t expected a no. “But I’ve already invited everyone!” she blurted. “You’re always happy to have people over!” She argued, but I held firm. She had two days to find another venue, but instead, she turned on me.
“You’re a terrible friend!” she snapped. “You can’t even help me out when I’m counting on you! This is what friends do!” Her words cut deep. I’d expected an invite to her birthday, but it never came. Truthfully, I didn’t even want to go by that point. I don’t know if her party happened, but her resentment has hung between us like a dark cloud.
Back at work the next day, I braced for frostiness, but Imogen went further—she turned her back when I walked in, refusing to even nod. The look she gave me was pure scorn, as if I’d betrayed her. Colleagues noticed the tension, and suddenly, the office felt unbearable. I shouldn’t feel guilty—my home isn’t a free-for-all venue—but I do.
Now I don’t know what to do. Swallow my pride and apologise for something that wasn’t my fault? Let our friendship fade? Imogen was dear to me, but her selfishness and unfair accusations make me wonder if it was ever real. Every choice hurts. Maybe time will show me the way, but for now, my heart’s torn between anger and grief.