Friendship is one of the great, quiet architectures of a life. It rarely arrives with fanfare, but instead builds by accumulation — the shared reference, the running commentary, the small noticing. It has patience for everything: to be brilliant, to be undone, to be trying, to be tired, to be hilarious, to be ordinary. Vulnerability without spectacle; loyalty without effort. The ongoing conversation that picks up wherever it was left.
Our mothers have been friends for fifty years — which sounds grand, but was made of everyday life. Dancing around London when they were young. Raising small children into big ones. Long dinners. Long phone calls. Now they natter, travel, cook, play golf, and laugh at the same jokes that never get old. We didn’t inherit their friendship exactly, but it shaped the ground we grew up on: ease without explanation, loyalty without announcement, support without ceremony, fun without pretense. A friendship that built itself steadily over time.
