My son died at 16 in an accident. My husband, Sam, never cried—not at the hospital, funeral, or in our silent home. I broke apart, but Sam buried himself in work, seeming like stone. Resentment grew, and our marriage ended. I moved away, while Sam remarried.
Twelve years later, after Sam’s sudden death, his new wife visited me. Over tea, she revealed Sam’s hidden grief. Every night, he drove to a lake he and our son loved, leaving flowers, talking to him, and crying alone. “He stayed strong for you,” she said, “but it tore him apart.”
Stunned, I wept, realizing I’d misjudged him. That evening, I visited the lake and found a box under a tree. Inside were letters Sam wrote to our son for every birthday since his death. As the sun set, I understood: love doesn’t always show itself. Sometimes, it hides quietly, waiting to be seen.
