Chapter 7-THE LETTER I NEVER SENT
522 Words
The days after the truth about Stephanie , were quiet.
Not the peaceful kind.
Not the almond-tree kind.
It was the kind of quiet that settles after something breaks, when you aren’t sure what to say or if saying it will make things worse.
Tara and Tyler still met beneath the tree, but now, the air between them was heavier. Not colder , just heavier.
He shared more now ,stories from childhood, the way he stopped talking after his parents split, how art had become the only language that made sense.
But Tara said less.
Because her own memories had begun to stir.
It started with a phone call.
She was in her room, reading, when her mother knocked and handed her the phone.
A strange number.
A familiar voice.
“Hi, baby girl. It’s me… Daddy.”
Tara blinked, frozen.
The voice she hadn’t heard in three years.
The voice that used to sing her to sleep.
The voice that left.
He spoke like nothing had changed. Like birthdays and silence and heartbreak weren’t scattered in the years between.
“I’m sorry I haven’t called. I was dealing with things. But I’ve been thinking about you a lot. And I want to see you.”
Tara didn’t say a word.
She couldn’t.
Her hand shook, and when the call ended, she stared at her wall for a long time before finally moving.
She pulled out her journal
, not the one for Tyler . The other one.
The one she’d hidden.
Inside was a letter, crumpled and yellowing with age.
She unfolded it.
“Dear Dad,
You said you’d stay.
But you didn’t.
You said I was your star.
But stars don’t shine when they’re forgotten.
Did you know I stopped celebrating my birthday after you left?
Did you know I still set a plate for you the first year, just in case?”
The words stopped there. She never finished it.
She’d written that letter the week he left.
And never sent it.
That night, she took her other journal the one she shared with Tyler and wrote:
“Dear you,
You showed me the sketch of your storm.
Let me show you mine.
Mine is a voice I used to run to.
A hand that used to hold me steady.
Now, it’s just a phone call, years too late.
I want to scream.
I want to forgive.
I want to feel nothing at all.
But mostly… I want to tell you.
Because you listen like no one else does.”
The next day, under the almond tree, she handed him the crumpled letter.
No words.
Just the letter.
He read it slowly, then looked at her eyes soft, voice low.
“You kept all that in?”
She nodded.
He touched her hand gently.
“Tara … you don’t have to be strong all the time.”
The words undid her.
She leaned her head on his shoulder, not speaking, just breathing.
And beneath the almond tree, their silence returned not as hiding, not
as fear.
But as understanding.
Two broken hearts beginning to heal not alone.
But together.
- Writer
