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She didn’t tell me a dramatic sob story. She just told the truth. Her parents had been strict. The father of the baby—me—was her college boyfriend, Isaac, who was Black. Her parents freaked. Sent her to a home in another state. Threatened to disown her. She gave birth, signed papers, and left with a hollow heart.
“And then I tried to move on,” she said. “But I never stopped thinking about you. Especially every year on your birthday.”
She pulled a little cloth bag out of her purse. Inside were a few folded letters.
“I wrote these over the years. Never mailed them, obviously. Just… wanted you to have them.”
I didn’t open them right away. Just nodded and put them in my bag.
We parted with a brief, awkward hug in the parking lot.
I didn’t know how to feel. Still didn’t, days later.
But I found myself reading the letters one night in bed. They were raw. Some were just updates. Others were tearful apologies. There was one where she imagined me with curly hair and braces, and asked if I liked horses. I cried reading that one.
After that, we started meeting for coffee. Quiet places. Neutral territory. I didn’t tell many people—not even my sisters.
And something strange happened. I started liking her.
She didn’t try too hard. Didn’t push. She had a dry, weird sense of humor. She called me out when I rambled. She listened.
We were up to meeting once a week when she got sick.
Pancreatic cancer. Stage four.
I visited her in the hospital. Brought her fuzzy socks and my husband’s banana bread. She smiled weakly and said, “Guess this whole thing’s been on a timer.”
I held her hand. “I’m glad we had time, though.”
She squeezed it. “Me too, baby girl.”
When she died four months later, I gave the eulogy.
And in the will, she left me one thing: a journal.
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