The Other Letters
That night, I read every letter Eleanor had written to Michael. They spanned decades: birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, and ordinary Tuesdays. Each one was a small window into her life—her hopes, her fears, her loneliness, and her enduring love for a son who had stopped listening.
“Michael, I planted roses today. Your father always loved roses.”
“Michael, I’m selling the house. It’s too big for one person.”
“Michael, I’m moving to Golden Pines. They say it’s a good place.”
“Michael, I miss you. Please come visit.”
None of them were answered. None of them were acknowledged. Yet she kept writing. Year after year. Letter after letter. A one-sided conversation with a son who had checked out long ago.
I don’t know why Michael stopped visiting. I don’t know why he stopped calling, or why he didn’t come when she was dying. But I know that I was there. And that mattered.
