I wasn\u2019t looking for her.
Not really.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But every December, without fail, she drifted back into my thoughts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Susan \u2014 Sue, to everyone who knew her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019m almost sixty now. And nearly thirty-eight years ago, I lost the woman I was sure I\u2019d grow old with.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not because we stopped loving each other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But because life has a way of getting loud. Messy. Complicated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
College ended. Jobs pulled us in different directions. One move turned into two. One unanswered letter turned into months of silence\u2026 which somehow became years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We didn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I married someone else. She did too, or so I heard. Kids. Mortgages. Careers. Entire lives built on top of what we never finished.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Still, every Christmas, I wondered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Was she happy?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Did she ever think of me?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Did she remember the promises we made when we were young enough to believe time was endless?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Last year was different.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
An envelope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Faded. Soft at the edges.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My name was written across the front in a familiar slant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her handwriting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I just stood there for a moment, staring at it. My heart started pounding, slow and heavy, like it didn\u2019t quite believe what my eyes were seeing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Inside was a letter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dated December 1991.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And as soon as I saw the date, a cold realization hit me \u2014 I had never read it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not back then. Not ever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sat down on the attic floor and opened it with hands that were suddenly unsteady.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And then I reached the sentence that stopped me cold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf you don\u2019t answer this, I\u2019ll assume you chose the life you wanted \u2014 and I\u2019ll stop waiting.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had to read it three times before it sank in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She had waited.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I never answered \u2014 because I never knew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I don\u2019t know how long I sat there. Minutes, maybe longer. The attic felt too quiet, like it was holding its breath with me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then I did something I hadn\u2019t done in almost four decades.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I typed her name into the search bar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t expect much. Maybe an old record. Maybe nothing at all. But I hoped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When the results appeared, my breath caught.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh my God,\u201d I said out loud, alone in the house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There she was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And one word that made my chest ache in a way I wasn\u2019t prepared for.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Widowed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stared at the screen for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then I closed the laptop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I told myself I wouldn\u2019t do anything reckless. I wasn\u2019t trying to rewrite the past. I wasn\u2019t chasing some fantasy. I just wanted to know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So I found her email.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stared at the blank message for nearly an hour.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In the end, I wrote the simplest thing I could manage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHi Susan. You probably don\u2019t expect to hear from me. I found something that made me think of you. I hope you\u2019re well.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t mention the letter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t mention 1991.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I hit send and immediately felt like I was twenty-two again \u2014 hopeful and terrified at the same time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She replied the next morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI never stopped wondering if I\u2019d hear from you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eventually, I told her about the letter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was silence on the line when I finished.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI waited,\u201d she said softly. \u201cI really did.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI would have answered,\u201d I said. \u201cI swear to you. If I\u2019d known\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know,\u201d she replied. And I could hear the smile in her voice. \u201cI believe you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We met in person that spring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Coffee turned into dinner. Dinner turned into long walks and longer conversations. We didn\u2019t try to be who we were back then.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We let ourselves be who we are now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Older. Wiser. Still familiar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sometimes, life doesn\u2019t give you second chances.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But sometimes, it gives you understanding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And every once in a while \u2014 if you\u2019re lucky \u2014 it gives you both.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That letter sat unread for thirty-eight years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But somehow, it still found its way to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Right when I was finally ready to read it.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I wasn\u2019t looking for her.Not really. But every December, without fail, she drifted back into my thoughts. Susan<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":5660,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[13],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-5659","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-world"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/states-news.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5659","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/states-news.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/states-news.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/states-news.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/states-news.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=5659"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/states-news.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5659\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5661,"href":"https:\/\/states-news.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5659\/revisions\/5661"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/states-news.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/5660"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/states-news.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=5659"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/states-news.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=5659"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/states-news.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=5659"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}