My best friend refused to come home from vacation after her daughter attempted suicide, then accused me of kidnapping her for taking her daughter in. When I confronted her, she scoffed and said:
“She did it for attention.”
I just stared at her. That was 6 months ago. This morning, she was crying outside a courtroom she wasn’t allowed in.
My best friend, Clare, had always dreamed of being a mother. Ever since we were teenagers, she’d constantly talk about what kind of mom she’d be and how many kids she’d have. So when Julia was born, Clare was over the moon, and I was just as happy. I’d never seen her glow so bright. Our daughters—Julia and my Emma—grew up together like sisters, spending weekends and holidays at each other’s houses.
Fast forward 15 years. Clare asked if I could watch Julia for a week while she took a solo vacation to Bali. It wasn’t unusual. Clare liked her breaks, and Julia practically lived at my house anyway. The first two days were fine—typical teen stuff, Netflix marathons, junk food, all of that. But on day three, things took a turn. At dinner, I called Julia down from her room, but she didn’t answer. Emma said she hadn’t seen Julia since lunch, and a weird feeling settled in my stomach. I walked upstairs, knocked on her door, but got nothing. I tried opening the door, but it was locked. Julia never locked her door. Something was off.
I grabbed the key from the hallway drawer and opened the door, my heart pounding. Julia was lying on her bed, barely breathing, surrounded by empty med bottles and a folded note. My vision blurred as I dialed 911. Emma stood frozen behind me, crying, asking what was happening, but I couldn’t find the words. Everything happened fast. The ambulance arrived and I was answering questions from EMTs while frantically texting a neighbor to watch Emma.
On the ambulance ride, I called Clare. She was still at the resort. Through choking sobs, I told her what happened, but instead of sounding even remotely worried, Clare hesitated, then said:
“Is it really that serious? Maybe she just wanted attention.”
I felt my stomach drop. My head spun in disbelief. At the hospital, the doctor explained Julia needed her stomach pumped. I texted Clare immediately. Surely now she’d realize how serious it was, but Clare’s next message knocked the wind out of me. Changing flights is $200. It’s expensive. Plus, you don’t have to go to the hospital every day. That’s literally what nurses are for.
I stared at my phone, my blood boiling. I wanted to scream, but I knew Julia needed me more than Clare’s drama right now. I took off work, used my vacation days, and spent three straight nights in the hospital chair beside Julia’s bed. One night, she told me she thought Clare didn’t love her anymore. She asked why her mom wasn’t coming back for her. I didn’t know how to respond. I just hugged her, feeling a wave of anger in my chest. Throughout all this, I sent Clare constant updates, photos, and texts, but each response I got back was shorter, colder. Meanwhile, she posted beach selfies, captioning, Living my best life.
It hit me then that the Clare I knew—the devoted mom she always claimed to be—had completely vanished.
When Julia was discharged, I prepared a safe, comforting room for her at my place. I tried countless times to talk to Clare about the situation, but she brushed it off every time. Clare finally showed up at my house a full day after landing, deeply tanned and relaxed. She gave Julia an awkward half hug, then immediately asked about the luggage she’d left before vacation. As I explained Julia’s recovery plan, Clare’s eyes darkened, her jaw tightening with every word.
Suddenly, Clare snapped. She stood up, accusing me of parenting her child behind her back. Her voice got louder, and she started shouting about me overstepping boundaries and blowing things out of proportion.
“It was probably just for attention,” she spat.
That’s when I heard a choked sob from the hallway. Julia stood frozen, tears streaming down her cheeks. Clare barely glanced at her daughter.
My heart pounded.
“Are you kidding me?”
I shouted. I yelled at Clare that she chose the beach over her dying daughter, but Clare just scoffed, rolling her eyes.
“Teens are dramatic. You should have known better.”
That was it. I snapped and unloaded everything. I told her she was selfish, that she’d consistently put herself first, that Julia’s life was apparently only worth $200 to her. Clare’s voice lowered, venomous and cold.
“You don’t understand what it’s like needing a break from your kids.”
At that exact moment, something between us shattered completely. I saw who Clare really was, and I knew instantly our friendship was beyond repair.
Clare grabbed Julia’s bag and demanded she leave. But Julia locked herself in my bathroom, sobbing uncontrollably, refusing to go. And that’s when Clare lost it. She began yelling, accusing me of kidnapping her daughter. And before I knew it, her phone was out and she was calling the police.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Call them. Let’s see what they think about a mother who wouldn’t interrupt her vacation when her daughter attempted suicide.”
That only made Clare angrier. She stormed out and came back 20 minutes later with two police officers. She was actually claiming I was kidnapping her daughter. The officers looked uncomfortable when they realized the situation. I showed them Julia’s discharge papers and tried to explain about the suicide attempt. Clare interrupted constantly, spinning some tale about me being obsessed with her daughter and trying to replace her as Julia’s mother.
“Ma’am, where is the minor now?” one officer asked.
“She locked herself in the bathroom because she’s afraid to go with her mother,” I explained.
The female officer asked if she could try talking to Julia. She knocked gently on the bathroom door.
“Julia, I’m Officer Martinez. Can we talk for a minute?”
After some coaxing, Julia unlocked the door. She looked terrible—red-faced and trembling. The moment she emerged, Clare started in on her.
“Julia, stop this ridiculous behavior right now. You’re causing a scene for no reason.”
The officers exchanged glances. The female officer suggested they talk to Julia privately. Clare objected, but the male officer firmly told her they needed to hear from Julia directly. While they were talking, Clare paced the hallway, loudly complaining about me poisoning her daughter against her. Emma, who’d been sitting quietly in the waiting area, started recording Clare on her phone without anyone noticing.
After about 15 minutes, the officers returned with Julia. Officer Martinez said:
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