A Decade Without Words
The dim evening wrapped itself around the old neighbourhood on the outskirts of London, and the trembling glow of streetlamps flickered in the puddles, mirroring the cold gleam of the autumn sky. Henry sat in a worn armchair, clutching a chipped mug with the faded inscription “This Too Shall Pass,” a gift from his first wife long ago. That mug was the only thread tying him to a past he had walled away. His divorce from Eleanor had left a hollow ache, but life had moved on—soon came Margaret, his new wife and mother to their two children.
Henry liked to think himself a decent father. After the split, he’d taken responsibility for his daughter, Alice, though it was like fighting shadows. A new family, work, debts—it all weighed on him, but he tried to keep the girl from feeling like an afterthought. Yet with each passing year, the rift between them widened. Alice grew quieter, her eyes dimmer, conversations ending abruptly. He searched for the cause of her sorrow but met only silence—cold as a winter gale.
When Alice turned eighteen, she left. No note, no explanation—just a packed bag, and she vanished into the night, as though the darkness had swallowed her whole. Henry couldn’t fathom that the girl he’d stayed up nights for had erased him so completely. He called, wrote, but her phone stayed silent. Over time, the calls grew fewer, then ceased altogether. Guilt gnawed at him, but he couldn’t name his mistake. Had he not loved her enough? Or had he been too blind to see her pain?
Ten years slipped by like a dream. Henry’s life settled into its grooves—children grew, Margaret became his anchor, the past locked away. Then the phone stirred to life, and his youngest, Emily, told him she’d found Alice. She lived in Manchester now, working as an analyst for a finance firm. Henry’s heart faltered—hope and dread twisted in his chest. He longed to reach out, but fear held him back. What if she turned away again? What if that rejection was final?
A decade after Alice’s disappearance, a message from Emily found her. Seventeen and earnest, her words cut like a knife. Emily spoke of school, dreams, of wanting to know her sister. Each letter pried open old wounds Alice had stitched tight over years. She didn’t reply—couldn’t. Too much pain had piled up in the silence between them.
Alice was twenty-eight, but inside her still lived the nine-year-old forced to grow up too soon. Her parents’ divorce had shattered her world. Her father had remarried swiftly, while her mother, abandoning her, fled abroad with a new husband. Alice was left in a house of strangers, made a servant—cleaning, cooking, tending her stepmother’s younger children. They called it duty, told her to be grateful for food and shelter. But it wasn’t a home—it was a prison.
At eighteen, she ran, vowing never to look back. Now Alice lived alone, built her life brick by brick as an analyst. Yet the past clung like shadows. And then it caught her—her father’s letter. Henry wrote at length, spilling regret and sorrow. He spoke of his failures, how he hadn’t been her anchor, of longing for forgiveness. The words burned like embers, each one searing.
Alice didn’t answer. Not him, not Emily. She’d locked her heart away, afraid that opening it would drown her in old pain. But last night, another message came. Emily wrote that she understood the silence and wouldn’t push further. Those simple, honest words cracked Alice’s armour. She wondered—Emily wasn’t to blame. She just wanted a family, the one Alice had never had. And what if Alice was denying her that chance?
Alice picked up her phone. Her hands shook as she opened Emily’s thread. The words came haltingly, thorny with hesitation. She spoke of her childhood, of love bartered for chores, of why trust was so fearsome now. But at the end, she typed: *“I want to try. Not yet—but try.”*
Sending it lifted a weight she hadn’t known she carried. For the first time in years, Alice felt something fragile but alive—relief. Maybe this was the first step, not just to survive, but to live. To make room in her world not only for solitude, but for the warmth she’d spent so long fearing.
