My son d.ied in an accident at 16. My husband, Sam, never shed a tear.
Our family fell apart and we ended up divorcing. Sam remarried and 12 years later, he d.ied. Days later, his wife came to see me.
She said, “It’s time you know the truth. Sam had a box.”
I blinked, confused. “A box?”
She nodded, gently placing an old wooden container on my coffee table. The edges were worn, the latch rusted with time. “He kept it hidden in the back of his closet. I only found it when I was going through his things after… well, after.”
I hesitated before opening it. My hands trembled.
Inside was a stack of letters. Dozens—maybe more. All addressed to our son.
Each envelope was marked by date, one written nearly every month for twelve years.
The first one on top was dated a week after the funeral.
“Dear Jacob, I know I wasn’t strong enough to cry in front of your mom. She needed me, and I failed. But I cry here. In silence. Every night.”
My eyes blurred as I reached for the next one. And the next.
They were filled with memories, apologies, regrets, and birthday wishes he never got to say aloud. He wrote about how he’d visit Jacob’s grave before work, every Thursday. About how he couldn’t bring himself to throw away Jacob’s favorite hoodie, so he slept with it under his pillow for years.
The last letter—dated only three days before Sam died—was different.
“I’m coming soon, son. I hope you’ll forgive me for the time I lost. Tell your mom I always loved her. I just didn’t know how to grieve with her.”
I pressed the letter to my chest, unable to breathe.
His wife placed a hand on mine. “He never stopped loving you. Or Jacob. Grief made him cold on the outside, but he carried both of you every day.”
I looked down at the box. Twelve years of silence. Twelve years of sorrow, sealed in ink.
And in that moment, for the first time since Jacob’s funeral…
…I finally cried for Sam.