**Fragments That Won’t Mend**
Three days after the funeral, Laura pulled out an old box. It had been tucked away in the cupboard behind a bag of Christmas decorations, coated in dust as though life itself had carefully hidden it there for later. For a time when the pain no longer seared every nerve but simply ached somewhere beneath the ribs. Or perhaps for when it became impossible to keep pretending nothing had happened. As if, on this very evening, in a kitchen scrubbed clean of sound, the past had knocked on the door all by itself and demanded to be let in.
Thomas sat motionless at the table. A mug of cold coffee sat untouched in front of him, his hands wrapped around it as though it held something vital. He didn’t look at his mother. But when she slid the box toward him, he took it. Gently. Carefully. As if what lay inside wasn’t paper—but glass.
Inside were dozens of letters. He recognized the handwriting instantly. His own. From childhood. The same loops and smudges he’d left on wallpaper and exercise books in primary school. Letters to his future self. Once, he was six, then eight, then twelve—each year, he’d written to himself. As if paper could hold what his heart couldn’t. As if it could be closer than a father who was always somewhere else. As if it heard. Understood.
He unfolded the first letter. A drawing: him and Dad by the river. Fishing rods. A lopsided sun in the corner. Crooked, uneven, but earnestly childlike. *”Dad promised to take me fishing this summer. Can’t wait. He said if I stop crying at night, we’ll definitely go.”* At the bottom—a shaky little heart. A plea stitched into ink.
Thomas lowered the letter onto the table. His fingers trembled. His mother stood by the wall, leaning into it like it was an anchor. She didn’t speak, didn’t move. Just watched, as though afraid to shatter the moment.
*”He never came, did he?”* Thomas’s voice was quiet. *”Work. Again. And then we stopped asking. One day, we just knew—there was no point.”*
His mother didn’t answer. Outside, rain drizzled, and the weak glow of the streetlamp made the room even duller. Everything here seemed faded since his death—the walls, the air, even the scent of books on the shelves. Even the clock on the wall ticked softer, as if reluctant to intrude on grief.
The next letter was short: *”I’m twelve. I don’t write to Dad anymore. Pointless.”* Thomas read slowly, lingering on each letter as if hoping his younger self might change his mind. But the words stood firm. Resolute. Like a knife. This wasn’t just a letter. It was the moment hope died. No scream. Just silence.
*”I hated him.”* The words were raw. *”Not for leaving, Mum. For… being there, but never really there. Empty promises. All those times you said ‘Dad’s running late’ when I already knew he wasn’t coming. Would never turn the key in the lock. Call my name.”*
His mother sank into a chair. In her hands was a single sheet. No envelope. Thick paper, a dog-eared corner. The writing—adult, unfamiliar, yet achingly known. Thomas stared as if seeing her for the first time.
*”He wrote to you. Before he died,”* she said. Her voice wavered.
He took the letter. One line:
*”You were my fear and my hope. Forgive me for never being there.”*
Thomas read it. Then again. And again. As if repetition would make it clearer. But clarity didn’t come. Only pain. And silence. Not in the words, but in the spaces between them.
That silence wasn’t empty. It thrummed. Not just with hurt, but with all the things they’d never said. It was full—stubborn, relentless. The past couldn’t be undone. But maybe it could be carried differently.
He folded the letters away. Carefully. Slowly. As if putting away not just paper—but himself. The last letter, he placed on top. Late. But perhaps not wasted.
*”Mum…”* He met her eyes, held them. *”Let’s go to that river. Where he promised. Take the rods. Just sit. Not for him. For us.”*
She nodded. Slowly. Deliberately. As if agreeing not just to the trip, but to the attempt. A flimsy one, maybe. But an attempt to be close. Just once—properly.
And this time—no *”I promise.”* Just the road. Just the water. And maybe, just maybe, a silence in which they could finally breathe.
