I turned 62 last week. Nothing huge planned—just a low-key gathering on the porch, some cake, a few friends. I even wore the sparkly “Happy Birthday” headband my daughter got me, just for fun.

But of course, Salome had to show up in full drama mode, like she always does.

She plopped down next to me with her polka dot dress and plastic cup, already halfway into someone else’s wine. Five minutes in, she started telling the whole group about her upcoming trip to Greece—loudly, dramatically, interrupting every toast. Then she launched into some long story about her ex-husband’s new girlfriend, dragging people into the mess like it was a reality show reunion.

I just sat there with my slice of cake, nodding politely, watching her hold court while everyone else leaned in like she was the guest of honor. Nobody even noticed the little photo album my grandkids made me. Or the birthday card from my sister I’d saved to read out loud.

At one point, I reached over to offer her a gift bag—something I’d picked up months ago when I saw it on sale. Just a gesture. She took it without even a thank you, glanced inside, and said, “Oh cute, I already have this.”

She didn’t even look up.

And the worst part? Everyone laughed when she said it. Like I was the one being ridiculous.

I don’t know why I let it get to me. Maybe because it’s every year. Every party. Every little thing that’s supposed to be mine, she somehow hijacks. But this time felt different.

Because after everyone left, I saw something on her phone when she accidentally left it on the couch next to me.

And now I am confronted with the truth.

I had never been the type of person to snoop. I wasn’t curious about Salome’s personal life. But that night, as I sat there, my hand reached out without thinking, and I picked up her phone. I didn’t know why—maybe it was the residue of irritation left over from the party. Maybe I wanted something to make sense of her behavior, something to explain her complete disregard for me.

What I found was both surprising and oddly confirming.

Her calendar was full—of course, she was always busy. But it wasn’t just the usual list of social events or lunches with her other friends. No, it was a little more insidious than that. Under a heading titled “Gifts for the Birthday Girl,” there were detailed notes about my birthday. In one section, it said, “Act surprised when she gives you that ugly scarf you wanted.”

I blinked, rereading it twice.

Ugly scarf? I hadn’t bought her a scarf. I had bought myself a scarf, because it was on sale, and I knew she had been eyeing it for weeks. I didn’t even want it, but I thought it might make her happy. And now this? Now I realized how much she had been pretending to be gracious when, in fact, she had no intention of even accepting the gift from me in a sincere way.

I scrolled a little further, and there, under another section titled “Birthday Playbook,” were instructions about how to steal the attention at the party.

I felt like a fool. How had I missed all this?

I put the phone down, suddenly feeling exhausted, as if the weight of her years of manipulations had finally crushed me. I wasn’t angry—at least, not in the way I’d expected. I felt… sad. This wasn’t just about one birthday. This was about a friendship I had put so much into for years, only to find out that it had never been about me at all.

The next morning, I woke up with a new sense of clarity. I thought about the way I had been letting Salome take over my life—every event, every gathering, every little moment that was supposed to be mine. She had hijacked every special occasion, turned every conversation into a performance, and made everything about her.

It wasn’t just my birthday—it was everything. Every single time I’d asked for something small, like a moment of peace or a small gesture of kindness, she’d turned it into an opportunity to make it about her, her stories, her dramas, and her world.

I couldn’t keep doing this.

I had a decision to make.

I called Salome that afternoon. My hands were a little shaky, but I knew I had to say something.

“Salome,” I began, keeping my voice even, “I need to talk to you about last night.”

“Oh? About the party?” she asked, sounding slightly dismissive. “What’s wrong with the party?”

“I’m not talking about the party itself. I’m talking about the way you treated me,” I said, letting the words sit in the air. I could feel the tension already creeping in. “I’ve been a good friend to you for years. But last night—your behavior? It wasn’t kind. And it wasn’t the first time.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. She sighed dramatically. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Are you really going to get all sensitive about it?”

“Sensitive? No, I’m not sensitive, Salome. But I’ve had enough of being treated like a backdrop in your show. It’s my birthday, and I’d like to celebrate it without being overshadowed by your need for attention.”

I heard her laugh softly. “Oh, please. You’re just mad because I had a bit more fun than you. It’s not my fault you’re all old and boring now.”

That stung. It shouldn’t have, but it did.

“I’m not ‘old’ or ‘boring,’” I said firmly. “But I’m not going to pretend I don’t see what’s going on anymore. You don’t care about anyone’s feelings but your own. And I’m done letting you walk all over me.”

There was silence, and for a moment, I thought she was going to hang up or brush me off, but then she spoke. “You’re really upset, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am. And you know what? I’ve let you hurt me for too long. I’ve been putting up with it because I thought you were my friend. But you’re not, Salome. Not anymore. I don’t need friends who only care about their own needs.”

Another pause.

“Fine,” she said after a while. “If that’s how you feel, I guess that’s it. I don’t need this in my life either.”

And just like that, the conversation was over. Just like that, Salome was gone from my life. It wasn’t an explosion of anger. It wasn’t dramatic. It was simply over. And in that moment, I felt a strange peace settle over me.

Over the next few weeks, I focused on my own well-being. I spent time with my true friends—those who had celebrated with me quietly and made me feel loved without needing anything in return. I started writing again, picking up hobbies I had long forgotten. I volunteered at a local community center, and I began doing things for myself, just because I wanted to.

And then, one day, I received an unexpected message. It was from a mutual friend of Salome and me. They told me that Salome had been trying to organize a big event—again, trying to steal the spotlight, this time at someone else’s celebration. But this time, it backfired. Her behavior had alienated everyone around her. She had isolated herself, and her actions had caught up with her. People were tired of her theatrics, tired of her manipulation.

I didn’t feel gloating, though. I felt something else. A sense of karmic balance. Salome had never learned to value the people around her, but now, she was starting to see the consequences of that.

It wasn’t my job to fix her. It never was. I had done enough. I had given her enough chances.

And in that moment, I realized that letting go of toxic relationships—no matter how hard it is—can lead to personal growth and freedom. Sometimes, people need to learn their lessons the hard way. And sometimes, the best way to move forward is to stop trying to change them and focus on your own peace.

If you’ve ever been in a friendship where you’ve given more than you’ve received, I hope you’ll learn from my story. Let go of the people who take without giving. Your time and energy are too valuable to waste. It’s okay to choose yourself.