A few weeks ago, after years without contact, I wished an old friend a happy birthday via text message. She replied simply to thank me and wish me well.

I needed a moment to get over my disappointment. And then I needed a moment to ask myself why I was disappointed in the first place.

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Several months ago, one of my oldest friends got in touch to ask how I was doing as a new mother. We hadn’t spoken in a very long time but our parents are friends, updating each of us about the other. She caught me at a moment when I was feeling a little lost, a little isolated. Her touching message prompted some writing back and forth, and we have had further contact since.

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Not long after writing my old friend on her birthday, I considered reaching out to an ex-boyfriend. And instead of doing that, I asked myself why I wanted to.

Because I haven’t wished him a happy birthday in over a decade. Because I don’t know anything about him anymore. Because nothing happening in his life is any of my business, and vice versa.

I think I wanted to gloat a little bit. To have an opportunity to share the news of my beautiful daughter, to mention my partner, to let him know that I, too, had turned out just fine.

Pride goeth before a fall, they say, and I kept the birthday wishes, disguised as an excuse to show off, to myself.

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I had reached out to one old friend in the hopes of rekindling contact, and her answer was a kind rejection. It was in my hands to ask and hers to answer, and she is as entitled to her answer as I am to asking the question. Without the question, one would not have the answer, and the least I can do is honour what I’ve been told.

Because that’s the thing about human connection: it really has to go both ways.