“Did you hear from Kirsty*?” asked my friend Hannah as we stood waiting for an Uber. We’d been out at our favourite wine bar in Edinburgh, celebrating my publishing deal. I shook my head. Kirsty, a friend of more than 25 years, hadn’t even commented on the social post I shared announcing my news. No quick “Congrats”. Not even a champagne-glasses emoji. In fact, she hadn’t even “liked” it, though I knew she’d seen my announcement because she’d viewed my stories.

Let’s be clear. I’m firmly in midlife, with teenage children, so I don’t tend to gauge friendships on whether someone likes my latest Instagram upload. But this was different. This was big news. The kind of news that brings people out of the social media woodwork, like a second cousin you haven’t seen since a wedding in 2004, or that girl you went to school with and keep meaning to meet up with next time you’re in Poole.

And Kirsty and I go back a long way. We met after university when we had the same temping job. We were part of the same group of friends who went out together, and even after we both moved on from that job, we stayed in touch. A few years later, when Kirsty had a baby, I was one of the first to go round with flowers and a babygrow.

When I had my first baby not long afterwards, she did the same. That’s the kind of friends we were. Soon we both had two children each, all under school age, and while I was trying hard to become a journalist around the breastfeeding and nappy changes, Kirsty had “done the maths” when it came to childcare and paused her career in HR. Although we were doing things differently, it still felt like it was us against the world. We’d sit in soft-play cafés moaning about how hard it was for mums: having to take a career break like her, or become a freelancer like me. We were united in our struggles.

Time went on, and I had more to be positive about. I was writing big features in broadsheets by then, and felt I had a career path I was excited about. Kirsty, on the other hand, was back in her HR job but didn’t like her boss. There was a disconnect between us, and when I said how happy I was doing something I loved, she found a way to focus on the negative. “It’s not exactly well paid!” she’d say. I’m not going to lie, it hurt a little. It’s so easy to just say “well done”, and I wanted her to be proud of me.

The 2020 lockdowns arrived and suddenly we all had something to complain about. Looking back, Kirsty came into her own. She seemed to love nothing more than shivering in someone’s back garden, talking about how much she missed the pub. I think that’s when I started to suspect it.

Maybe it was sitting outside in all weathers, but something made me wonder if she was in fact a foul-weather friend. They’re the opposite of fair-weather friends: there for the bad times, and not interested when things are good. Because she appeared to be happiest when we were united in misery. And when the balance shifted, and there was something to celebrate, she was nowhere to be seen.

Why was she like this? Perhaps complaining together makes people feel better about their own situation if they’re not happy or feel left behind. But I’m a firm believer in celebrating the wins, too. I’m not in competition with my friends, and I want us to cheer each other on. That’s what friendship is all about, right?

There’s an expression that friends come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime – and although it had always sounded like a cliché to me, I started to think that Kirsty was probably my friend for a reason, maybe a season, and definitely not a lifetime. But I still wasn’t sure what to do. After all, we had shared history. I introduced her to her husband. She gave me my favourite necklace…

I didn’t want to confront her as I couldn’t face a big argument. So we just ticked along. Still officially friends, and still meeting up, but things felt like they’d shifted and I really noticed her lack of interest in anything that wasn’t discussing a problem.

Then came my publishing deal. Sure enough, I didn’t hear from Kirsty, then or in the days and weeks afterwards. But why would I? She didn’t speak the language of congratulations. She was, however, fluent in, “I’m sorry to hear that”. I need friends who are bilingual, and I decided I wasn’t going to rush to spend time with her any more.

I didn’t message her again. Not a great way to end a long friendship, but it seemed mutual as she didn’t get in touch either, which hurt, but made things slightly easier. We still follow each other on social media though, and I recently saw she’d had a (big) birthday. Of course, I wasn’t invited. And I wonder what Kirsty thinks about it all, or if she even knows what went wrong.

I do sometimes reminisce about the fun we had, which is natural when someone has been part of such a big chunk of your adult life. When friendships end, they’re harder to grieve than romantic break-ups, especially when, like this one, they just tail off and there’s no big falling-out. I still miss her, but never enough to get in touch, and I certainly don’t miss the sense of deflation I used to get when returning home from an evening of moaning. Foul-weather friends can be harder to identify than the fair-weather version, but no less exhausting. From now on, I’m looking for all-weather only.