Yet instead, I nodded and walked away, carrying the kind of silence that shatters you from the inside out.
For a year, I made an effort to move on, burying the ache.
Then, one rainy evening, a knock came at my door.
As I opened it, a tall man in an expensive suit stood there, his eyes glistening.
It was her husband. “I’m Daniel,” he said softly. “Your mother’s husband.” I froze, terrified of what he might say.
But then, with trembling hands, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small box. “She never told me about you,” he whispered. “But I found the letters.”
Inside the box were dozens of envelopes — letters my mom had written to me every year on my birthday.
My mom had kept them hidden, never daring to send them.
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