Hi everyone, it’s Emma here. I’m not usually the kind of person to pour my heart out on social media, but I feel like I need to share something that’s been weighing on me for a while. Maybe it’s because I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting lately, or maybe it’s just time.
A few weeks ago, I found myself cleaning out my mom’s attic. It was a rainy Saturday, and I was in one of those moods where you just want to dive into memories, you know? As I was sifting through old boxes, I came across a dusty, shoe-box-sized chest, something I’d never noticed before.
The chest was charming but unassuming—a faded blue with little daisies painted on its lid. It was locked, though not particularly securely. The key was taped to the bottom. Inside, I found dozens of letters, tied with a thin red ribbon. My heart skipped a beat, realizing they were all addressed to my father.
Here’s the thing: my father died when I was seven. My memories of him are like little shards of glass—bright but scattered and sharp, occasionally painful. I always believed I knew everything about him—at least everything a daughter needed to know. The letters proved me wrong.
As I read through the letters, they revealed a side of my father I never knew. These weren’t love letters or anything of that sort, but rather a collection of dreams, regrets, and reflections he had penned to himself. It was like he was writing to a future version of himself, or maybe even to me, though perhaps he never intended for anyone to read them.
They covered everything from mundane musings about fixing an old car to more profound thoughts on life and love. One letter stood out. It was dated three months before he passed away. He wrote about his struggles with depression—a truth he hid so well that none of us ever knew. His words were raw, aching with a vulnerability I’d never associated with him. “I feel like I’m drowning,” he admitted in one passage, “and I don’t know how to ask for help.”
I don’t know how long I sat there, tears streaming down my face, as those hidden words wrapped around my heart. It was like meeting him all over again, this time as an adult who could finally understand the weight he carried. I wish I could reach out across time and tell him it’s okay, that we all have shadows.
Discovering this part of him was like a key unlocking not just the chest, but also parts of myself I had tucked away. I realized how much of his introversion, his silent strength, lived in me. I’ve always felt like an old soul, and maybe now I understand why.
After reading his letters, I felt compelled to write my own. So I did. I wrote to him, about him, and about me—about the person I’ve become and the pieces of him I see in myself. It was cathartic, a way to bridge the gap that death had left between us.
Sharing this here is nerve-wracking, but necessary. I want people to know that sometimes the most meaningful connections with those we love are the ones we discover in quiet moments of reflection, even when they’re no longer with us. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that love persists, spanning across unseen chasms and through forgotten letters.
Thank you for reading my story. I hope it encourages you to look at the things left unsaid with a little more compassion.
Take care, and hold your loved ones close.
Emma