Why I Hated Victoria

Because her hair was perfect.
Because she refused to own a microwave and I couldn’t cook without one.
Because her apartment was filled with antique furniture, gilt-framed paintings and fine china.
Because I lived with dog crates, dust bunnies and a very large television.
Because she always had time for yoga, painting, writing, kayaking and traveling in and out of her friends’ lives.
Because I always seemed to be doing laundry and finding things other people had lost.
Because her father was a high school principal and my father was the town drunk.
Because she left the sofa bed unmade and alphabetized my spices.

Because my husband thought she was beautiful and blamed me when she disappeared for the last time up our too sharp drive, leaving only an orange bathing suit and the dregs of a difficult friendship.