At the same time, Daphne received an offer she’d dreamed of — a nonprofit job filled with meaning and growth.
I could never ask her to give that up.
We promised it was temporary.
Weekend visits. Long letters. Hope.
We believed love would bridge the distance.
Then, without warning, the letters stopped.
No argument.
No goodbye.
Just silence.
I wrote again and again.
One letter was different — raw, honest, full of love and patience.
I told her I would wait. That nothing had changed for me.
That was the last letter I sent.
I even called her parents and asked them to make sure she received it.
Her father sounded polite, distant. He said he would pass it along.
I trusted him.
Weeks turned into months.
Nothing.
Eventually, I convinced myself she had moved on.
That she’d found someone else.
That closure was something I’d never get.
So I did what people do when answers never come.
I moved forward.
I met Tatum.
She was practical, steady, realistic — everything Daphne wasn’t.
At that point in my life, that felt right.
We married, built a life that looked good from the outside.
Two kids. A dog. School events. Weekend trips. Stability.
It wasn’t unhappy.
Just… different.
When I was forty-two, we divorced quietly.
No betrayal. No anger.
We’d simply grown into roommates instead of partners.
Our kids, Rhys and Clover, were old enough to understand.
They turned out strong and kind, and for that, I’m grateful.
Still, Daphne never fully disappeared.
Every holiday season, I wondered about her — if she was happy, if she remembered us, if she’d ever truly stopped waiting.
Some nights, I could almost hear her laugh in my head.
Then, last year, everything changed.
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