A woman carrying a baby girl | Source: Pexels
After the funeral, a hollow ache settled in my chest, a constant, physical pain. The house felt empty, cold, no longer filled with the warmth of her presence. My father retreated completely into himself. He moved like a ghost, eating meals in silence, working endlessly in his study. We were two ships, adrift, in the same house. I felt more alone than I ever had in my life.
A woman smiling | Source: Pexels
A woman smiling | Source: Pexels
My heart hammered. It felt like an intrusion, but also a pilgrimage. Inside, there were faded photographs, a dried flower from some forgotten event, and a stack of letters, tied with a thin, brittle ribbon. They weren’t addressed to anyone, just dated. A diary, essentially, but in letter form. Her familiar handwriting, slightly shakier than I remembered.
I sat on the floor of her closet, the scent of lavender and mothballs filling my nostrils, and began to read. The early letters were unremarkable, recounting daily life, mundane joys, small frustrations. Then, the tone shifted. A date appeared, years before I was born. “He told me today,” she wrote. “My heart broke into a million pieces. How could he? How could I possibly…?” My breath hitched. What was she talking about?
The next letter, dated weeks later, spoke of a woman, a name I didn’t recognize, and a profound sense of betrayal. “She’s pregnant, and he says it’s his. He’s so lost, so utterly terrified. He came to me, not to her. He says he made a terrible mistake. Says he loves me, only me.” I felt a cold dread creeping through me. This wasn’t the idyllic past I’d always imagined.
An aisle in a grocery store | Source: Pexels
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