A friend of a friend took her own life yesterday.
She had been caught/discovered embezzling funds from small businesses for which she worked as a bookkeeper and, for reasons known but to her, decided there was no other way to make amends.
It’s only money. Even if it couldn’t be repaid, it isn’t worth a life. No one would have asked for this as a punishment.
She was sitting in the room in which I write just six days ago, surrounded by a dozen friends, all sharing laughs and occasional shrieks as the wine flowed along with the conversation. Any one of them would have listened with a sympathetic ear.
This sounds angry, as if I am angry with the departed. And in truth, I am, a little. We have all been robbed of a friend and a chance to help, and over something as inconsequential as money.
Does this mean I condone stealing? Am I some kind of soft-on-crime liberal? Far from it: but I value people more than money.
I lost a friend many years ago in a similar way. She felt she had no other options, but the difference in her case was her health. She had survived debilitating cancers, twice, and when the third instance was found, she didn’t have the strength to go on nor did she want to be that helpless again. I can accept that, a medical-based decision, more readily.