Ten years after Jen vanished on their wedding day, Roy built a quiet life far from the heartbreak that once destroyed him. But when a single letter arrives with her familiar handwriting, everything he thought he knew begins to crumble. What truth could shatter him all over again?
I still remember the first moment I saw Jen. It was sophomore year, a crowded hallway on a warm September afternoon. She dropped an entire stack of books right in front of me, and I went down on my knees to help her gather them.
When she looked up, her smile hit me like a punch. It was soft, warm, and almost shy. “Thanks,” she said, brushing her hair behind her ear.
“I swear, gravity hates me.”
I laughed. “Good thing I’m around to keep you upright.”
She blushed, and something inside me settled. I didn’t believe in love at first sight then, but I did that day.
We ended up grabbing coffee, then spent hours talking, and by the end of the night, we were already making plans for the next day. After that, we were never apart. Four years went by like a breeze.
We studied together, cooked cheap meals in tiny apartments, argued over silly things, made up over pizza at midnight, and whispered dreams into each other’s necks. I proposed to her on a cold December night, right outside the library where we had our first real conversation. She cried so hard I thought she was rejecting me.
“Yes, Roy. Of course yes,” she whispered, hugging me with so much emotion that I felt my heart might burst. At that point, I felt like the luckiest man alive.
I thought my life was sorted, and that I didn’t need to worry about anything. Little did I know how wrong I was. While I felt like everything was leading toward the future we were supposed to have, there was one person who didn’t share our excitement.
My mother, Margaret. Mom believed in two things: money and status. But Jen had neither.
Jen came from a hardworking, modest family, and to my mother, that was enough reason to look down on her. The first time I brought Jen home, Mom’s smile was tight and brittle. “So,” Mom said over dinner, lifting her wine glass, “you’re studying social work?
That’s… sweet.”
Jen gave her a polite smile. “I’ve always wanted to help kids from difficult homes.”
Mom nodded slowly, as if the words were foreign to her. I kicked her under the table when she muttered, “Not exactly a lucrative field.”
On the drive home, I apologized nonstop.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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