The Happiness of Others

You are alive.

You are no longer young, but you are not yet old. You are at the height of your physical power; your mind is sharp, and the flightiness of adolescence has faded. You are working, you are rising, you are investing. Your spouse is beautiful. You love her and she loves you, and your children are innocent and beautiful and well-behaved.

You assure people they are still just ordinary, rambunctious children at home, and you confess that your spouse and you fight sometimes. You express doubts, now and then, of your career and your calling and your financial security. You do this with an embarrassed smile and a self-deprecating humility. You nod thoughtfully, earnestly, at advice. You even put it into practice sometimes. 

You eventually age, of course. Don’t we all? But you age well, you look nearly the same as the years pass. You are still married, happily. Your children are still doing well in school, still involved in activities, still filling up most of your always picturesque Christmas letter. You have changed careers, and you are now doing what you know you were always meant to do.

You are kind, you really are, in that I’m-really-looking-at-you way, and when you say, “I’ll pray for you,” you actually do, most times. You listen and you invite people to your house, and you even discipline your children when others are present, without screaming.

And here you are, listening to my sob story. You sympathize. You don’t even say you understand. You actually tell me you don’t, but that you’re sorry and that you’re there, in any way I need. You invite me to coffee next week.

You are, in a word, happy.

And I hate you.