Then she went silent.
No argument. No goodbye. Just absence. One week her letters were full of ink and feeling. The next, nothing. I wrote again. Then again. The last letter was everything—I loved her, I could wait, nothing had changed.
I even called her parents and asked them to pass it along.
Her father was polite. Distant. He said he would.
Weeks became months. I told myself she’d moved on. Eventually, I did what people do when there’s no closure.
I moved forward.
I married Tatum. She was practical, grounded—nothing like Daphne. We built a good life: two kids, routines, camping trips, a house full of ordinary happiness. It wasn’t wrong. Just different.
We divorced when I was forty-two. Quietly. Kindly. Rhys and Clover were old enough to understand. We hugged in the lawyer’s office and meant it.
Still, Daphne never really left. Every Christmas, I wondered if she remembered us the same way I did.
Then last winter, everything shifted.
In the attic, reaching for decorations, a thin envelope slid out and landed on my foot. Yellowed. Soft edges. My full name written in her familiar slanted hand.
Dated December 1991.
I had never seen it.
The envelope had been opened. Carefully resealed.
Only one explanation.
I don’t know when Tatum found it or why she hid it. Maybe she thought she was protecting our marriage. It doesn’t matter now.
Daphne wrote that she’d only just found my last letter. Her parents had hidden it. They told her I’d called to say I was done—that I wanted her to move on.
They wanted her with Thomas. Stable. Approved.
Then the line that stopped my breath:
If you don’t answer this, I’ll assume you chose the life you wanted—and I’ll stop waiting.
Her return address sat at the bottom.
I found her online that night. A private profile. A new last name. Her photo stopped me cold—silver now, but still her. Same smile. Same tilt of the head. A man beside her, but nothing that said together.
I sent the request before I could overthink it.
Accepted. Five minutes later.
“Hi! What made you suddenly decide to add me after all these years?”
I sent a voice message. Then another.
“I never disappeared. I never stopped trying. I never knew.”
She didn’t respond that night.
The next morning:
We need to meet.
We chose a café halfway between us. Neutral ground.
She walked in five minutes late, navy coat, hair pulled back—and smiled like time hadn’t touched us.
Coffee: mine black. Hers with cream and cinnamon.
“I married Thomas,” she said quietly. “We had a daughter. Divorced years ago.”
I nodded. Told her about Tatum. About Rhys and Clover.
“Christmas was always hardest,” I said.
“Me too.”
I reached across the table. Touched her fingers.
“The man in your photo?”
She laughed. “My cousin. Happily married.”
Relief surprised me with its force.
“Daphne,” I said, “would you consider trying again?”
She didn’t hesitate.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
That Christmas Eve, she invited me over. I met her daughter. She met my kids later. Everyone fit like pieces that had been waiting.
This spring, we’re getting married. Small. Quiet. She’ll wear blue. I’ll wear gray.
Because sometimes life doesn’t forget what we’re meant to finish.
It just waits until we’re ready.