**Fragments Left Unmended**
Three days after the funeral, Harriet pulled out an old box. It had been tucked away in the storage cupboard behind a bag of Christmas baubles, covered in dust as though life itself had carefully hidden it there—for later. For when the pain no longer cut through every fibre of your being but settled as a dull ache beneath your ribs. Or perhaps for the moment when pretending nothing had happened became impossible. That evening, in the kitchen scrubbed clean down to the silence, it was as if the past had knocked on the door itself, demanding to be let in.
James sat motionless at the table. A mug of cold coffee sat in front of him, cradled between his hands as though it held something precious. He didn’t look at his mother. But when she slid the box toward him, he took it. Quietly. Carefully. As if it held not paper, but glass.
Inside were dozens of letters. He recognised the handwriting instantly. His own. Childlike. The same scrawl that had once marked the walls and schoolbooks of a six-year-old. Letters to his future self—written at six, then eight, then twelve, and every year after. As though paper could preserve what his heart couldn’t bear. As though paper could listen better than the father who was never there. As if it understood.
He unfolded the first one. A drawing: him and his father by the riverbank. Fishing rods. A lopsided sun in the corner. Clumsy, uneven, but achingly earnest. *”Dad promised to take me fishing this summer. Can’t wait. He said if I stopped crying at night, we’d definitely go.”* At the bottom, a crooked heart. A plea stitched into ink.
James set the paper down. His fingers trembled. His mother stood against the wall, leaning into it like an anchor. She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Only watched, as if afraid to shatter the moment.
*”He never came that year,”* James said softly. *”Business trip. Again. And then we stopped asking. One day, we just… knew there was no point.”*
His mother said nothing. Outside, drizzle blurred the streetlamp’s glow, casting the room in dull grey. Everything here had dimmed with his father’s death—the walls, the air, even the smell of old books on the shelves. Even the clock ticked quieter, as if reluctant to disturb grief.
The next letter was short: *”I’m twelve. I don’t write to Dad anymore. What’s the point?”* James read it slowly, tracing each letter as if hoping the child’s hand might change its mind. But the words were firm. Final. Like a blade. This wasn’t just a letter. It was the moment hope had died—without a sound.
*”I hated him,”* he admitted. *”Not for leaving. For being there… but never really there. For all the empty promises. For every ‘Dad’s running late’ you repeated when I already knew—he wasn’t coming. No jingle of keys. No call. Ever.”*
His mother sank into a chair. In her hands was a single sheet—no envelope. Thick paper, a dog-eared corner. The handwriting was grown, unfamiliar, yet achingly known. James stared as if seeing her for the first time.
*”He wrote to you. Before the end,”* she said, her voice wavering.
He took it. One line:
*”You were my fear and my hope. Forgive me for never staying.”*
James read it. Then again. And again. As if repetition might make sense of it. But there was no sense—only hurt. And silence. Not the absence of words, but the weight of what had gone unsaid.
That silence wasn’t empty. It pulsed. Held not just the grudges, but everything they’d never voiced. It was full—stubborn, unrelenting. The past couldn’t be fixed. But maybe it could be carried differently.
He gathered the letters. Gently. Slowly. As if packing away not paper, but himself. And he placed the last one on top. Late. But perhaps not pointless.
*”Mum…”* He met her eyes—past and present. *”Let’s go to that river. Where he promised. Bring the rods. Just sit. Not for him. For us.”*
She nodded. Slowly. Carefully. As if agreeing not just to the trip, but to the attempt. Fragile as it was. To be there—properly, for once.
This time, no *”I promise.”* Just the road. Just the water. And maybe, in the quiet, room enough to breathe.
