I’ll miss the party tonight. I won’t wear the expected mask.

I often wear one. I wore it yesterday, and quickly realised. No more.

I’d bumped into a previous colleague who oozed charm, success, and gushiness over how delighted she was to see me. I’d agreed that I was happy, healthy, fulfilled, doing well. That was partially true. She hurried on. No time, no real interest. Inside, my heart was aching. Was hers?

Insincere, on both our parts.

At tonight’s dinner-party many past work friends will share details of fun, successful retirements, and travels past, present, and future. There’ll be happiness, laughter, superficial chat. Will deeper thoughts or worries be shared? Personal griefs? No, they’ll all be hidden, well masked. No-one wants to spoil a party.

I have a few close friends; we wear no masks. We transition smoothly to deeper levels of conversation if and when we need to.

At present my disabled foster son is critically ill. Serious family conversations follow each conference with doctors. Our hearts are breaking at his pain, and at what might happen.

Tonight I won’t pretend to be happy when I’m not.

It’s not my party, and I’ll cry if I want to.