Chapter 12 - A Letter in the Mail
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Four months passed. The vibrant green leaves of summer faded into the crisp, golden hues of autumn. My life had completely transformed. I was thriving in my role as Regional VP, my bank accounts were flourishing, and most importantly, the heavy, suffocating anxiety I used to carry around Daniel was completely gone.
One crisp Tuesday afternoon, I was sorting through my mail on the kitchen counter when I froze.
Sitting beneath a stack of utility bills was a thick, cream-colored envelope. The handwriting was instantly recognizable—the sharp, slanted script of Daniel.
My heart did a strange, uncomfortable flutter. I hadn't spoken a single word to him since I placed the wedding rings in his palm and walked out of the ballroom. I stared at the envelope for a long time. Part of me wanted to throw it directly into the fireplace. I didn't need his excuses, and I certainly didn't need more manipulation.
But curiosity, and a deep-seated need for absolute closure, won over my hesitation.
I grabbed a letter opener, sliced the top of the envelope, and pulled out three pages of handwritten notebook paper.
I took a deep breath, leaned against the granite counter, and began to read.
Dear Emma,
I don’t expect you to reply to this. I don't even expect you to finish reading it. I just know that I couldn't live with myself for another day without formally writing down the words I should have said to you on that stage.
I am so deeply, profoundly sorry.
There are no excuses for what I did, or what I allowed my mother to do. I spent the last four months sitting in a therapist's office, trying to understand why I sabotaged the best thing that ever happened to me.
May you like
I stopped reading for a second, surprised. Daniel in therapy? The man who once claimed mental health discussions were "overdramatic" was actually seeking help.
I took a sip of my coffee and continued reading, bracing myself for the inevitable request for a second chance. But as I read on, the request never came.
