It’s been ten years. Ten years since the day my sister vanished. The day after her wedding, she just… disappeared. The house was quiet when we woke up. Too quiet. Her clothes were still there, hanging in the closet, a faint scent of her wedding perfume clinging to the fabric. Her phone was off. All her phones, actually. No note. No text. Just gone. The police were useless. A runaway bride, they said. As if it was that simple. Her husband, my brother-in-law, was absolutely destroyed. He never truly recovered. We searched for months, then years. Every missing persons poster, every hopeful tip that turned into nothing. Eventually, the silence became unbearable, and hope just became another form of pain. We had to move on, or try to.
But you never really move on. Not from something like that. There’s always this hollow ache, a question mark hanging over everything. Every family gathering, every holiday, her empty chair was the loudest thing in the room.
A week ago, I finally decided to tackle the attic. It was long overdue. Dust motes danced in the slivers of sunlight, illuminating a graveyard of forgotten memories. Each box I opened felt heavy, weighted with the past. Old photo albums, school projects, childhood toys. Then, I saw it. A box, tucked away in a corner, neatly labeled, in her unmistakable script: “college things.”
My heart gave a lurch. I hadn’t touched this box since she left. Why now? Maybe I needed to feel close to her, just for a moment. With trembling hands, I lifted the lid. Inside, beneath a pile of old textbooks and faded concert tickets, lay a single envelope. It was cream-colored, slightly yellowed with age, and addressed simply to “Me.” My name. In HER handwriting.
My breath hitched. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped it. This was it. After all this time. A message. From her. What could it possibly say? What truth had she been hiding for a decade? Was she alive? Was she okay?
I tore it open. The paper inside was thin, fragile. Her familiar loops and curves filled the page, but the words… the words hit me like a physical blow.
“I’m so sorry,” it began. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t marry him, not really. Not knowing the truth.”
I frowned, my heart pounding against my ribs. What truth? What could be so bad she’d abandon her own wedding?
Then, the next line. I read it once. Twice. My vision blurred. “I was pregnant.”
The air left my lungs in a ragged gasp. PREGNANT? My sister? That was impossible. She’d never said a word. There were no signs. We were so close. How could she keep something like that from me?
I swallowed, my throat dry, and forced myself to read on. Each word was a punch to the gut. “It wasn’t his. It wasn’t my husband’s baby. I couldn’t live that lie. Not with him, not with everyone. I had to go. I had to protect this secret, protect them.”
Them? My mind screamed. Who was “them”? My eyes scanned frantically, desperately searching for answers. And then I saw it. The final, devastating lines. The confession that shattered my entire world, the reason she wrote to me.
“It was his baby. Your fiancé’s. He was the only one I ever truly loved. I left him with your mom, just like we planned when you were little. Please, find him. Protect him. He’s your son, now.”
I dropped the letter. The attic, the boxes, the whole world around me spun. My fiancé. My husband now, the man I’ve been married to for nine years. My sister is his lover, the mother of his child, and the baby I always thought was adopted by my mother, is her son. He’s my nephew. No. He’s my brother. He’s my son. OH MY GOD.
