Chapter 13 - THE LETTER HE SHOULD HAVE RECEIVED TEN YEARS AGO
One afternoon, I found an old envelope in a box of baby clothes.
It was addressed to Ethan.
I had written it during my seventh month of pregnancy.
I never mailed it.
At the time, I believed he wanted nothing to do with us.
I sat on the floor and read it.
Ethan,
I don't know whether you'll ever read this.
I don't know whether you'll ever want to know your children.
But today I heard their heartbeats.
Two heartbeats.
Two tiny lives.
And for a moment, I wished you were beside me.
I stopped.
My eyes filled.
The letter continued.
I won't beg you to love them.
I won't let them grow up believing they were unwanted.
But I hope someday you'll understand what you missed.
I folded the paper.
Then called Ethan.
“Can you come over?”
He arrived thirty minutes later.
I handed him the envelope.
He opened it.
Read it.
Then sat down.
For several minutes, he didn't speak.
Finally, he looked up.
“Claire.”
His voice was barely audible.
“I would have come.”
I nodded.
“I know that now.”
He covered his face.
I sat beside him.
Not touching.
Just there.
After a while, he whispered:
“I missed their first heartbeats.”
“Yes.”
“Their births.”
“Yes.”
“Their first steps.”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
“I'm so sorry.”
I closed my eyes.
For ten years, I'd imagined hearing those words.
Now that I finally had, they didn't erase the pain.
But they made room for something else.
Grief.
Understanding.
May you like
And perhaps, eventually, forgiveness.
---
