The words hit me like a tidal wave:
*“Tyler,
I’m pregnant. I know this is a shock, but I didn’t know where else to turn. My parents found out and are forcing me to stay away from you, but if you meet me at the bus station on the 22nd, we can run away together. I’ll be wearing a green coat.
Please, meet me there. I’m so sorry I lied when I broke up with you. My father was watching. I never stopped loving you.”*
I sat down, the letter trembling in my hands. She had waited for him—poured her heart into this plea—and Tyler had never even opened it.
His footsteps echoed down the stairs. When he saw me holding the letter, his face turned pale.
“What did you do?!” he shouted. “That was my most precious memory!”
I stood, holding the letter up. “Memory? You’ve kept this for decades, Tyler, and you never even read it? She was pregnant, waiting for you, and you didn’t show up because you were too afraid to open a box?”
He sank onto the sofa, his face in his hands. “I didn’t… I didn’t know,” he whispered. “I was scared.”
I felt a wave of exhaustion wash over me. I had spent years being second to something he didn’t even understand.
“Tyler,” I said softly, “I’m done. I’ve waited too long for you to let go of the past. I deserve more than this.”
He didn’t try to stop me as I walked away.
The divorce was quiet. We divided everything evenly—the house, the cars, the memories. Tyler eventually tracked her down, but she had moved on. She was happily married, and their son wanted nothing to do with him. He had missed his chance—twice.
As for me, I found peace in a small apartment of my own. Last Christmas Eve, I sat by the window with a cup of tea, watching the soft glow of lights from the neighboring buildings. There was no tree, no gifts, and no lingering shadows from the past.
Just peace.