I wasn’t looking for her.
Not really.
But every December, without fail, she drifted back into my thoughts.
Susan — Sue, to everyone who knew her.
It usually happened when the house went quiet. After the decorations were up. After the rush of shopping and errands faded. When the lights were on, but there was nothing left to do except sit with your memories.
I’m almost sixty now. And nearly thirty-eight years ago, I lost the woman I was sure I’d grow old with.
Not because we stopped loving each other.
But because life has a way of getting loud. Messy. Complicated.
College ended. Jobs pulled us in different directions. One move turned into two. One unanswered letter turned into months of silence… which somehow became years.
We didn’t break up in a dramatic way. There was no final fight, no slammed door. Just distance. And the quiet assumption that if something mattered enough, it would find a way to survive.
I married someone else. She did too, or so I heard. Kids. Mortgages. Careers. Entire lives built on top of what we never finished.
Still, every Christmas, I wondered.
Was she happy?
Did she ever think of me?
Did she remember the promises we made when we were young enough to believe time was endless?
Last year was different.
I was up in the attic, digging through boxes for old decorations, when I pulled a hardback book off a shelf. Something slipped out and landed at my feet.
An envelope.
Faded. Soft at the edges.
My name was written across the front in a familiar slant.
Her handwriting.
I just stood there for a moment, staring at it. My heart started pounding, slow and heavy, like it didn’t quite believe what my eyes were seeing.
Inside was a letter.
Dated December 1991.
And as soon as I saw the date, a cold realization hit me — I had never read it.
Not back then. Not ever.
I sat down on the attic floor and opened it with hands that were suddenly unsteady.
Her words were gentle. Honest. Vulnerable in a way that made my chest tighten with every line. She talked about her new job. About missing me. About how strange it felt to imagine a future without the person she thought would always be in it.
And then I reached the sentence that stopped me cold.
“If you don’t answer this, I’ll assume you chose the life you wanted — and I’ll stop waiting.”
I had to read it three times before it sank in.
She had waited.
And I never answered — because I never knew.
I don’t know how long I sat there. Minutes, maybe longer. The attic felt too quiet, like it was holding its breath with me.
Then I did something I hadn’t done in almost four decades.
I typed her name into the search bar.
I didn’t expect much. Maybe an old record. Maybe nothing at all. But I hoped.
When the results appeared, my breath caught.
“Oh my God,” I said out loud, alone in the house.
There she was.
Older, of course. Softer around the eyes. But unmistakably her. A photo from a charity event. A short bio. A city listed two states away.
And one word that made my chest ache in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
Widowed.
I stared at the screen for a long time.
Then I closed the laptop.
I told myself I wouldn’t do anything reckless. I wasn’t trying to rewrite the past. I wasn’t chasing some fantasy. I just wanted to know.
So I found her email.
I stared at the blank message for nearly an hour.
In the end, I wrote the simplest thing I could manage.
“Hi Susan. You probably don’t expect to hear from me. I found something that made me think of you. I hope you’re well.”
I didn’t mention the letter.
I didn’t mention 1991.
I hit send and immediately felt like I was twenty-two again — hopeful and terrified at the same time.
She replied the next morning.
“I never stopped wondering if I’d hear from you.”
We started slowly. A few emails. Then phone calls. Long ones. The kind where you forget how much time has passed until your ear aches and your coffee goes cold.
She told me about her life. Her marriage. Losing her husband five years earlier. I told her about mine. About my divorce. About the quiet house that had felt a little too empty for a long time.
Eventually, I told her about the letter.
There was silence on the line when I finished.
“I waited,” she said softly. “I really did.”
“I would have answered,” I said. “I swear to you. If I’d known…”
“I know,” she replied. And I could hear the smile in her voice. “I believe you.”
We met in person that spring.
Coffee turned into dinner. Dinner turned into long walks and longer conversations. We didn’t try to be who we were back then.
We let ourselves be who we are now.
Older. Wiser. Still familiar.
Sometimes, life doesn’t give you second chances.
But sometimes, it gives you understanding.
And every once in a while — if you’re lucky — it gives you both.
That letter sat unread for thirty-eight years.
But somehow, it still found its way to me.
Right when I was finally ready to read it.
