A dark evening settles over the old neighbourhood on the outskirts of London, and the flickering glow of streetlights trembles in puddles, mirroring the cold gleam of the autumn sky. Simon sits in a worn-out armchair, clutching a chipped mug with the faded inscription, “This Too Shall Pass,” a gift from his first wife years ago. That mug is the only thread still tying him to a past he’s walled away. The divorce from Emily left a hollow ache, but life moved on—soon came Natalie, his new wife and mother to their two children.
Simon prides himself on being a good father. After the split, he took custody of his daughter, Abigail, though it felt like fighting shadows. Between the new family, work, and mounting bills, the weight never eased, but he tried to keep Abigail from feeling like an outsider. Yet over the years, he watched the chasm between them widen. Abigail grew quieter, the light in her eyes dimming, conversations ending mid-sentence. He tried to understand what haunted her, but every attempt met silence—cold as a winter gale.
When Abigail turned eighteen, she left. No note, no explanation—just a packed bag and a vanished presence, as if swallowed by the night. Simon couldn’t believe the daughter he’d stayed up nights for had erased him. He called, he messaged, but her phone stayed silent. Over time, the calls grew sparse, then stopped altogether. Guilt burned inside him, but he couldn’t pinpoint his mistake. Had he not loved her enough? Been too distracted to see her pain?
Ten years slipped by like a dream. Simon’s life settled: the children grew, Natalie became his anchor, and the past was locked away. Then, one day, his phone buzzed—his younger daughter, Sophie, had found Abigail. She lived in Manchester now, working as a financial analyst. Simon’s heart stuttered—hope and fear twisting in his chest. He wanted to reach out, but dread held him back. What if she turned away again? What if that rejection was the final one?
A decade after vanishing, Abigail received a message from Sophie. She was seventeen, her words raw and earnest, cutting like a blade. Sophie wrote about school, dreams, her longing to know her sister. Each message was a blow, reopening old wounds Abigail had stitched shut over the years. She didn’t reply—couldn’t. The pain was too deep, the silence too heavy.
At twenty-eight, Abigail still carried the shadow of the nine-year-old girl forced to grow up too fast. Her parents’ divorce shattered her world. Her father remarried quickly; her mother abandoned her, moving abroad with a new husband. Abigail was left in a house where she became a servant—cleaning, cooking, tending to her stepmother’s younger children. They called it gratitude for shelter and food. But it wasn’t a home—it was a prison.
At eighteen, she ran, swearing never to look back. Now, Abigail lived alone, rebuilt herself piece by piece. Yet the past wouldn’t release her. And now it had found her—through a message from her father. Simon’s letter was long, steeped in regret. He spoke of his failures, his blindness, his hope for forgiveness. Each word seared like hot iron.
Abigail didn’t reply. Not to him, not to Sophie. She locked her heart away, terrified that opening it would drown her in old pain. But last night, another message came. Sophie wrote that she understood the silence and wouldn’t push anymore. Those simple, honest words cracked Abigail’s armour. A thought struck her: Sophie wasn’t to blame. She just wanted a family—something Abigail never had. Was she denying her sister that chance?
Abigail picked up her phone. Her hands shook as she opened Sophie’s thread. Typing was agony—words clung like thorns. She wrote about her childhood, the love she’d paid for in chores, the fear of trusting again. But at the end, she added: *”I want to try. Not yet—but I want to.”*
Sending it lifted a weight she hadn’t realised she carried. For the first time in years, Abigail felt relief—fragile, but real. Maybe this was the first step toward more than survival. Maybe there was room in her world for something other than loneliness—for the warmth she’d spent so long fearing.
