Susan was the love of my life. But 30 years ago, she left me without any reason. I still can’t forgive myself for letting her go. I’m 70 now, but the pain hasn’t faded. Recently, my grandson was going through some things in the attic and found a box. I opened it and… froze. Inside was a locket. THE locket! I thought I’d lost it forever—along with Susan! Had it really been this close all along?! The locket was wrapped in a note. And oh God… when I saw her handwriting. Not a typed letter, not a stranger’s message. This was hers, undeniably hers, delicate and familiar, on faded paper. My heart hammered against my ribs, a drumbeat of hope and terror. Thirty years. Thirty years of replaying every argument, every quiet moment, trying to pinpoint where I went wrong. Why did she just disappear? Why didn’t she fight for us?
The locket, still clutched in my other hand, felt impossibly heavy. It was a simple silver oval, engraved with the intertwining initials, S and J. We were just kids when I gave it to her, pledging forever. I hadn’t dared to open it, my gaze fixed on the note. My fingers, gnarled with age, fumbled with the brittle edges. I pulled it free, unfolding it carefully, as if it might crumble to dust in my hands.
The first few words blurred. My eyes stung. I blinked, took a shaky breath. And then I read.
“My dearest love,”
My vision swam again. Her voice, echoing in my mind.
“If you ever find this, know that leaving you was the hardest thing I have ever done. And I did it for you. There was no other choice. I got the diagnosis a few weeks before. It was aggressive. Terminal. There was nothing they could do.”
NO. My mind screamed. This couldn’t be right. All these years… NO REASON? She had a reason, a terrible, EARTH-SHATTERING reason.
The paper shook violently in my grip.
“I couldn’t bear for you to watch me fade away. To see the man I loved, my vibrant, joyful man, broken by my slow decline. I knew you would stay, you would fight, you would suffer with me. And I couldn’t let you. I wanted you to remember me as I was then, full of life, full of us. I packed only what I needed, sold my car, bought a one-way ticket, and went somewhere I knew no one, so no one could find me and tell you. I lived out my remaining months trying to cherish every memory of you, knowing I made the right, impossible choice.”
A guttural sob ripped from my throat. SHE DIDN’T LEAVE ME. SHE SACRIFICED HERSELF. She bore this alone. All these decades, I hated myself, thinking I drove her away, that I wasn’t enough. I mourned a betrayal that never existed. I cursed her for her apparent heartlessness, when all along she was protecting mine.
The note ended: “Forgive me, my love. Live a full life. Be happy. And remember, you were always, always, my forever.”
I finally pried open the locket. Inside, not a photo of us, but a tiny, folded piece of paper. I carefully opened it. It was a single, pressed forget-me-not flower. Her favorite.
Thirty years. THIRTY YEARS OF GRIEF MISPLACED. Not for a lost love who abandoned me, but for a love so deep, so profound, that she chose to break her own heart, and mine, to spare me an even greater agony. The pain hasn’t faded? It just intensified, becoming a gaping, bleeding wound. And this time, there is no one to blame but the cruel hand of fate. I’m 70. And now I know the real, unbearable truth.
