Then, one day, ten years later, everything changed.
It started with a letter.
A clean, white envelope with no return address. Inside was a single sheet of paper.
“You probably don’t remember me. But my name is Maria. I was a social worker who worked with Daniel Whitman after his father passed. He talked about you a lot.”
“I wanted you to know that Daniel passed away last week. He died in his sleep. Heart failure. He was only 37.”
“He had a hard life, but he always said he didn’t blame you. He understood your grief. I just thought you should know.”
I stared at the letter for hours. My hands trembled. My heart pounded.
Daniel was gone?
He had been so young. So full of life, even in his sullen silence.
And then… guilt.
Crushing, suffocating guilt.
I couldn’t sleep. The next morning, I called every number I could find. I tracked down Maria, the social worker, and begged to know more.
She was kind. Soft-spoken. She agreed to meet me at a coffee shop.
“He lived in shelters for a while,” she said. “Then worked as a janitor. Quiet guy. Never caused trouble. He used to keep a photo of your husband in his wallet.”
I blinked. “Of Thomas?”
She nodded. “Said he was the only one who ever believed in him. He never stopped missing him.”
I swallowed hard.
“And… me? Did he ever say anything about me?”
Maria hesitated. “He said he wished things had gone differently. But he didn’t blame you. Said grief does strange things to people.”
That night, I cried like I hadn’t cried in years.
