The Box She Left Behind

That word—alone—lingered. I waited until the house was quiet, our son asleep, the guests gone. Sitting on the edge of our bed, I studied the necklace. It looked vintage. On the back, etched faintly, were two initials: L.T.

My initials.

I couldn’t imagine how she’d come to own a necklace with my initials. Coincidence? Maybe. But curiosity tugged harder. I searched the box for a note. There it was—folded, with my name written in her unmistakable, sharp script.

I hesitated. Then opened it.

“If you’re reading this, I’m gone. And if you’re reading it, that means I finally grew a spine. I never said it when I should’ve, but… I was wrong about you. All along. And I need to tell you why.”

I stared at the page, stunned. She wasn’t the kind of woman who admitted fault.

“I hated you not because of who you were, but because of what you reminded me of. I saw myself in you—young, driven, opinionated. I used to be like that. Until I gave it all up for marriage, for appearances, for people who never said thank you. When you married my son, I feared he’d ruin you the way his father ruined me.”

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