A coworker once gave me a small plastic cactus as a regift. I didn’t think much of it—until I accidentally knocked it over one night and discovered a hidden camera inside. Strangely enough, it felt like a fitting symbol for what I’d been experiencing in my social circle: hidden motives and crossed boundaries.
Take one dinner outing, for example. Susan, Greg, and I went out, but while they ordered a $200 feast, I stuck to a simple $4 drink. When the bill came, Greg casually suggested we split it six ways—even though only three of us had eaten. Dan, who’d only had about $50 worth, somehow ended up paying nearly $147.
Fed up, I left a $10 tip and walked out.
The next day, Susan and Greg called me selfish for not ordering food, and Dan blamed me for the situation. I tried to explain that he could’ve spoken up, but he kept enabling them—making it impossible for me to set boundaries without becoming the scapegoat.
Maybe it seemed petty, but I was tired of cleaning up after their poor choices. To me, real friendship means fairness and mutual respect. Speaking up was my way of drawing the line—hoping, maybe, it would lead to better behavior going forward.
