Chapter 28
The Letter She May Never Give
T he house was silent. It had been for days now.
But tonight, the silence felt reverent. Like even the walls were holding their breath.
Lila sat at the small writing desk tucked in the corner of her bedroom, a thick knit shawl draped around her shoulders.
Her hands trembled slightly—not from the illness, but from the weight of everything she’d been holding in.
The words had pressed against her ribs for months. Now, they begged to be let out. She pulled out a sheet of thick ivory stationery and uncapped her fountain pen.
She didn’t know if he would ever read it. She didn’t know if she’d be brave enough to leave it somewhere he’d find but she had to write it
For herself.
For the girl she used to be. For the woman who had once believed in forever. She inhaled slowly, then began.
Nate,
I don’t know how to start this letter.
Not because I don’t have words—I have too many. Too many thoughts, memories, questions. Too many hurts I’ve swallowed quietly, pretending they didn’t matter.
But they do. They always did.
I still remember the first night we met. You were wearing that awful striped tie, remember? The one that made you look like you didn’t know what you were doing, but you smiled like you knew exactly what you wanted.
Me.
And I fell. God, did I fall. Fast. Hard. Without fear.
You made me feel seen in a way no one ever had. You made me believe in something bigger than myself. And when we built this life—this family—I thought, this is it. This is home.
But somewhere along the way, we got lost.
Or maybe just you did.
I’ve spent too long wondering what I did wrong. Was I not enough? Too quiet? Too tired? Too busy with the kids? I’ve replayed every moment trying to find the version of myself that stopped being loved by you.
But I’m starting to realize something: it wasn’t about me.
You grew restless. Or maybe just selfish. And instead of talking to me, instead of reaching for my hand, you reached for something easier. Something newer. Something that didn’t carry the weight of ten years of history and messy mornings and sick kids and long nights.
And yet… I still love you.
Isn’t that the cruelest part?
Even now—knowing what I know, feeling what I feel—I look at you and wonder if the man I married is still in there somewhere. If you miss me. If you ever think about those early days, when laughter came easy and love was loud.
I see how you look at me now. With guilt. With distance.
And I wonder if you’re already halfway gone.
The truth is, I’m scared. Not just of what’s happening inside my body, but what’s happening to us. To our children. To this family I tried so hard to hold together.
I think Caleb knows. He’s stopped asking where you are.
And Ava… she’s angry. I see it in her eyes. She looks at me like I’m weak for staying quiet. Like I should have screamed. Slammed doors. Demanded answers.
But I’ve never known how to be loud when I’m in pain.
I write this now not to shame you. Not even to beg you to change.
I write this because if I don’t say it now, I never will.
You hurt me, Nate.
In ways you may never fully understand.
And I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you.
But I will always hope that one day, you become the man our children deserve. The one I believed you were when I said yes. The one who held me in the dark and promised I’d never have to face it alone.
I’ve felt alone for a long time.
I hope you never feel this kind of silence.
– Lila
She set the pen down slowly, staring at the words she had poured onto the page. They looked beautiful and broken at the same time. Lila folded the letter neatly and slipped it into an envelope. But she didn’t write his name on it.
Not yet.
Instead, she tucked it into the bottom drawer of her nightstand and closed it gently, like she was closing a chapter of her soul.
She turned off the lamp, crawled under the covers, and stared at the ceiling until sleep finally claimed her.
And the silence returned—deeper, heavier than before.