Real love often means telling the truth, or so I thought until my friend Danza showed me otherwise. It was a warm Friday in March. Cherry blossoms filled the air with fragrance as I waited on the deck. I anticipated a reunion with Danza and our friend Elsie, yearning to relive our high school memories for a fleeting moment.

Elsie arrived in cut-off denim shorts with a sleeveless top, embodying a style reminiscent of 1969. She hugged me, towering over my shoulder despite her wedge sandals.

“How do I prepare myself?” she asked, touching the corner of her eye.

I reassured her, “She’s still Danza. Just without hair.”

Elsie and I entered Danza’s room together, then I stepped out to give them privacy. Returning, I saw they both had tears in their eyes. Elsie was at the bed’s edge, fingers fidgeting with the duvet. “Okay, chickadee! It’s makeover time!” she announced, spreading out makeup on the table.

In high school, makeup was rare for us, except during performances. Our natural look, true to Carole King’s sentiment, was a symbol of authenticity. Now, the makeover was an attempt to reclaim normalcy, altering appearances just as we had as teens.

Elsie raised Danza’s hospital bed, painting her face with precision. I took the eyeliner, remembering Danza’s high school lessons, and sang.

“You make me feel…”

Danza joined in softly. “…like a natural woman.”

While Elsie massaged Danza’s hands with cream, I carefully enhanced her eyes and lips. We adorned her with a lavender scarf, bringing her features to life. Danza admired her reflection, adopting a pose reminiscent of a photo shoot.

Our laughter brought us back to high school days. Conversations about past volunteer work with white stockings and pink ribbons surfaced.

But then the mood shifted.

“You keep asking me questions,” Danza said. “Why don’t you just ask what you’re not saying?”

Confused, I urged her to talk.

Finally, Danza confessed a lie. Years ago, she misled me about a birthday party she never planned due to lack of funds. It was a revelation 25 years in the making, now softened by understanding from my own financial struggles with my musician husband.

I assured her of my love, admitting my blindness to her hardships. Her silence had protected me, showing the depth of her care. We emerged from this as if reborn, tears proof of reconciled histories and hearts.

Outside, Elsie sat quietly, absorbing my account of our conversation. Relief came with irony—the lie was a testament to our bond.

A hospice nurse then arrived to check on Danza, providing a comforting presence. When I shared the past revelation, her acknowledgment offered solace. Danza could now find peace, and so could I. What I once saw as elemental truth morphed into understanding love’s true essence: bearing burdens alone for the sake of another.

Author Megan Vered is a Berkeley, California, native whose personal essays have appeared in multiple publications.

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