The Secret I carried

💌 Chapter 10: Letters Unsent

The house was still. Too still.

After the boys fell asleep, Lyra found herself in the quiet of her room, sitting on the edge of the bed with a pen in one hand and an old journal in the other. It had been years since she’d opened it—years since she allowed herself to write anything personal that wasn’t bound by schedules, board notes, or finance reports.

She flipped past several pages of scribbles and half-thoughts until she reached one written in faded ink, the handwriting a little shakier than her usual:

You were the only man I ever loved. And the only one I had to walk away from.

It stopped her breath.

She remembered writing that in the early months after Sean was born, back when the pain was still sharp and the guilt too loud to ignore. It had never been meant for Riven to read. Just a letter to empty her heart.

And yet, here it was. Still hidden. Still waiting.

She turned to a blank page and stared at it for a long time before her hand began to move.

Dear Riven,

I don’t know why I’m writing this tonight. Maybe because I saw our son draw you from memory. Maybe because I keep hearing your voice in my head when the house gets too quiet. Or maybe because I’m tired of carrying this alone.

You once asked me if I ever wished we had more time.

The truth is, we did have time. I just spent it lying to myself.

Sean has your eyes. He has your stubbornness, too. And your laugh—God, your laugh. Every time he smiles, I hear it. And every time I hear it, I feel like I’m breaking all over again.

She paused, pressing her hand against her mouth, willing the tears to stay down.

There were so many nights I thought about telling you. So many chances I had. But I was afraid. Afraid of what you’d think of me. Afraid of what you’d take away. Afraid I’d lose everything I had left after Charles died.

So I chose silence. And that silence became a prison.

I don’t know if you would’ve stayed. I don’t know if you would’ve forgiven me. But I like to believe that somewhere, beneath the hurt and confusion, you still would’ve loved me.

Maybe you still do. I don’t know anymore.

She sat back, letting the pen fall beside her. Her hands trembled slightly, the way they always did when the truth came too close to the surface.

She didn’t fold the page. Didn’t tear it out.

Instead, she let it sit there—open, vulnerable, raw.

The weight of those words wasn’t freeing. Not yet. But they were real. And after so long in silence, real felt like something she could live with.

She closed the journal gently and placed it on her nightstand. This time, she didn’t tuck it away in a drawer or slide it under a pillow.

She left it in the open.

Maybe she was ready to be seen.

Or maybe she just wanted to stop hiding from herself.

Down the hall, a floorboard creaked.

She padded barefoot into the boys’ room and found Sean curled up, one hand clutching the hem of his blanket. Kent was on the other bed, arms folded across his chest like he was guarding something important in his sleep.

Lyra sat between them, her hands in her lap.

She watched them breathe.

Watched the rise and fall of everything she was trying to protect.

And whispered into the dark, “Forgive me. I did what I thought was right.”

The shadows didn’t answer.

But something in her heart shifted—just a little.