At 29, I caught my twin sister kissing my fiancé and cut her off. Ten years of silence followed—my hurt calcified into righteous anger. When she died suddenly, I nearly skipped the funeral, but Mom begged. I went, armored in resentment.
After the service, I drifted into her childhood room. In her desk drawer lay a folder labeled with my name. Inside: a decade of unsent letters—regret, love, pleas for forgiveness.
Then the truth: she hadn’t kissed him. She was pushing him away. She’d caught his betrayal and was confronting him to protect me. Stunned silent, she never got the words out before I fled. She tried reaching me, then stopped, terrified of hurting me more.
I sat amid her letters and cried for the sister I’d erased. I’d chosen pride over questions, walls over words. I whispered “I’m sorry” to an empty room.
Now I bring flowers and her letters to her grave. The past is sealed, but I can still choose compassion sooner, listen deeper, love louder—while the people I have are still here to hear it.
