The first weeks in the Kelley Barracks hotel waiting for base housing to open up after our move to Germany were surprisingly enjoyable. I cooked creative cuisine using the room’s tiny microwave and foodstuffs pilfered from the hotel breakfast bar. The kids made forts in the room. I watched home improvement shows on AFN.

But soon, the novelty of camping out in the barracks hotel wore off, and I found myself chatting with the hotel clerk, commissary baggers and anyone at the dog park to combat loneliness.

After five weeks, a stairwell apartment finally opened up on Patch Barracks. I couldn’t wait to start bonding with the other wives in the building, but strangely, no welcoming party arrived at my door.

I pathetically scanned the neighborhood for potential friends while walking the dog, schlepping the kids to school and throwing trash in the communal dumpsters. I made eye contact with those that looked approachable, but women averted their eyes when I glanced at them. Moms pushed their strollers a little quicker when they noticed me. Groups chatting on the stairwell patio suddenly got quieter.

In desperation, I made rash choices. I joined the Army Ladies Bowling League, a sport I’d never liked. I volunteered in my daughter’s classroom despite my general exasperation with other people’s kids. I subbed for a bunco group infamously referred to as “The Screamers,” due to their blood-curdling squeals upon rolling the dice.

It took months, but I eventually made inroads with the other women in our building. I wasn’t high on their social ladder, but they’d made room for me on a bottom rung. It was during that precarious time that something happened to test my moral compass as a military spouse.

“Lisa, didn’t you see the email about brunch?” a ringleader from the other stairwell called one morning to ask. “We’re meeting in my apartment in 10 minutes. I made quiche. Come over so we can make a decision.” I had no idea what decision she was talking about, but I was too junior to miss a spouse get-together. I grabbed my coffee and went to Stairwell A.

I arrived last, and joined at least 10 other wives seated in the cramped apartment’s living-dining area. Jammed between the table and wall, I nibbled a scone as the women discussed an issue of which I was completely unaware.

“She’s crossed the line,” I heard.

“It’s got to stop,” one wife said.

“She needs to respect our rules,” another said.

As the chatter raged, I realized they were talking about a new wife who’d recently moved into Stairwell A. I hadn’t been introduced to her yet, but I’d heard others complain on walks to and from school. Something about her two young boys running amok in the stairwell, about her funny decor and about her weird demeanor.

“Okay everyone,” the ringleader announced, “Let’s all sign the letter, and we’ll give it to her with this basket of brownies.”

“What letter?” I asked.

“Lisa, you weren’t around when we all discussed this,” she handed the page over, and I read the typed words, outlining behaviors that the wives found objectionable, couched in passive-aggressive false courtesy.

I was presented with a dilemma. Sign the letter, thereby preserving my dubious hold on the lowly rung of the social ladder I’d fought so hard to grasp. Or, take a stand, and run the risk of being friendless again.

“I’m not signing this letter,” I spoke up, quickly getting the wives’ attention. “If I received this as a brand new wife in this building, I’d cry myself to sleep every night for two weeks. This letter basically says, nobody likes you. That’s mean. If each of you has a problem with her behavior in this building, then you should go to her individually.”

I left the brunch that day knowing that eyes were rolling behind me, and I couldn’t have cared less. I identified more with the new “weird” wife struggling to make friends than the established group of “cool” stairwell spouses who seemed to have all the fun. By rejecting the new wife, I’d be rejecting myself.

That day, I realized that the only way to make good friends is to be one.

Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com