Ten Years Without Words
A shadowy evening settled over the run-down neighbourhood on the outskirts of the city, and the flickering streetlamps trembled in the puddles, mirroring the cold gleam of the autumn sky. Edward sat in a worn armchair, clutching a chipped mug with the faded inscription *This Too Shall Pass*—a relic from his first wife, Margaret. That mug was the only thread still binding him to a past he had walled away. His divorce had left an ache behind, but life had marched on: soon came Eleanor, his second wife and the mother of his two younger children.
He prided himself on being a good father. After the split, he’d taken custody of his daughter, Charlotte, though it felt like fighting a ghost. A new family, work, debts—they all weighed on him, yet he tried to shield the girl from feeling like an outsider. But over the years, he saw the chasm widening between them. Charlotte grew quieter, her eyes dimmer, their conversations withering mid-sentence. He’d ask what troubled her, only to be met with silence—cold as a winter gale.
When Charlotte turned eighteen, she vanished. No note, no explanation—just a bag packed and gone, as if swallowed by the night. Edward couldn’t fathom it: the child he’d sacrificed for, simply erased him. He called, wrote, but her phone stayed silent. With time, the attempts dwindled, then stopped altogether. Guilt gnawed at him, but he couldn’t name his mistake. Had he been too distant? Too blind to see her pain?
Ten years slipped by like a dream. Edward’s life settled: the children grew, Eleanor became his anchor, and the past stayed locked away—until the phone rang. His youngest, Elizabeth, had found Charlotte. She was living in another city, working as an analyst at a financial firm. Edward’s heart stilled—hope and dread twisting in his chest. He wanted to reach out, but fear held him back. What if she shut him out again? What if this rejection was the last?
A decade after leaving, Charlotte received a message from Elizabeth. At seventeen, her words cut deep, raw with honesty. She wrote about school, dreams, how she longed to know her sister. Each letter was a blow, peeling open old wounds Charlotte had stitched shut over years. She never replied—couldn’t. The hurt ran too deep.
At twenty-eight, Charlotte still carried the ghost of that nine-year-old girl forced to grow up too soon. Her parents’ divorce had shattered her world. Her father had remarried quickly; her mother, abandoning her, fled abroad with a new husband. Charlotte was left in a house where she became a drudge—cleaning, cooking, tending to her stepmother’s children. They called it *gratitude* for food and shelter. But it wasn’t a home; it was a prison.
At eighteen, she’d fled, vowing never to look back. Now she lived alone, building a life brick by brick. Yet the past clung like a shadow—until her father’s letter came. Edward’s words were thick with regret. He spoke of failures, of how he’d failed to shield her, of a hope for forgiveness. It was a cry from the heart, yet every sentence burned.
Charlotte didn’t answer. Not him, not Elizabeth. She barred her heart, terrified that opening it would drown her in old pain. But then another message arrived. Elizabeth wrote that she understood her silence and wouldn’t push further. Those simple, honest words cracked the armour. Charlotte hesitated: Elizabeth wasn’t to blame. She only wanted the family Charlotte had never had. Was she denying her sister that chance?
Charlotte picked up her phone. Her hands shook as she typed. The words clawed their way out—slow, thorny. She told of her childhood, of love turned into debt, of why trust felt impossible. But at the end, she added: *I want to try. Not yet—but try.*
Sending it felt like lifting a stone from her chest. For the first time in years, Charlotte breathed—light, fragile. Maybe this was the first step: not just surviving, but living. Maybe her world could hold more than solitude. Maybe there was room, after all, for the warmth she’d feared.
