You were my friend, and now you aren't.

It was just a normal Monday afternoon, sitting in the waiting room at the dentist’s office. I had one kid reading her Kindle quietly, one loudly proclaiming facts about the different fish in the large tank, and one arguing with her just because he could. I had completed all the forms online before our appointment, so we were simply waiting. Then you walked in.

You, who used to be the sister of my heart. Summers of sleeping in tents in my parents’ backyard, while you told me terrifying stories. The smell of hairspray from ’90s dance recitals while we twirled around in itchy sequined costumes. I was the first person to see your engagement ring. You gave the speech at my wedding and planned my baby shower. And now we haven’t really talked in five years.

Not because we had a big falling out. There were no angry words or a huge door slamming event. You had your fourth, I moved one town over, and we built a house before I had my second. First, it was fewer visits, then fewer calls. I don’t know when we stopped texting and only using Facebook Messenger.

Then, nothing.

We make small talk in the office. You ask my oldest what she is reading and laugh at something my youngest says, and it confuses him slightly when you use his name. Of course you know his name, just like I know each of your children’s names.

It hurts to watch you interact as a casual stranger to my 11-year-old when, at one time, I expected you to be her favorite aunt. We had planned that for three decades. You won’t ask, but I can say that she still has the hand-painted name decoration you made in her room, above her door.

You smile and wave big at the receptionist, who jokes that you made it out of the house alone! No small feet as a mom of four. Your smile is noticeably brighter and more relaxed when you greet her.

I want to ask what happened. I want to ask if you miss me. I want to ask if you have time to grab a coffee soon. But I don’t. When the hygienist walks in for my oldest, she asks me if fluoride is okay and if I feel ready for the ortho consult. I lose myself in the comfortable chaos of managing my family. Why do we schedule all three at the same time? First, my oldest goes. Then, a few minutes later, a smiling hygienist comes for my youngest, who I will go with.

I look over at my middle, check that she is good to wait until she is called. She smiles and says, “Of course.” I say goodbye to you and walk away. I know when I come out, you will be in a room or already have left.

The reality is shocking that instead of saying, “Do you mind watching her for a sec?” Instead, I ask my 8-year-old if she feels secure sitting by the fish tank for a few minutes. That is how far we have come. That is the chasm neither of us is crossing. You don’t offer to watch her. I don’t ask you to.

It hurts because I don’t think either of us did anything wrong. I miss you. I worry you don’t miss me at all. I sometimes feel like I never keep friends. I always have friends, but I don’t have a ride-or-die. You were the longest-running person, though. From summer camp through college, first Thanksgivings with the in-laws and babies, you were my friend. And now you aren’t. Now you are someone I run into at the dentist’s office. I miss you more than any ex-boyfriend. I just miss you.