I swore I wouldn’t cry, but when I saw Mom waiting by the garden in her work clothes, holding those roses—my knees nearly buckled. She’d missed every parent night, every ceremony. Always said the farm came first. But after the photo, she slipped a folded letter into my pocket and whispered, “This is from your father. He wrote it the day he…”

I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t. For so many years, I had lived with the void, with the unanswered questions about why he left, why he never came back. Every year, Mom would try to fill the gap with her constant work and meager words, but it wasn’t the same. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to feel something—anything—but not this.

I stared at her as she walked back toward the house. The wind caught her hair, but she didn’t seem to care, like she was numb to the world. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt connected to her. Not truly.

The farm had always been her priority, and I’d always been second.

I looked down at the letter, crumpled in my hand. I wanted to throw it away. It felt like the last piece of something I didn’t want anymore. Yet there was something inside me that urged me to open it. That something whispered that maybe, just maybe, the truth would finally make sense.

I stood there for a few more seconds, feeling the chill in the air and the weight of the moment. The roses, with their soft pink petals, seemed to mock me, reminding me of how much I’d longed for a mother’s love that I could never quite reach.

And then, I unfolded the letter.

It was written in a shaky hand, and the words on the paper felt too familiar, like they were written by someone I should have known, someone I should have recognized.

“Dearest Alice,

I don’t know where to begin. There are so many things I wish I could explain, so many things I regret. But most of all, I regret not being there for you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for every moment I missed. For every moment you had to wonder why I wasn’t there. For every birthday, every holiday, every school event… and for everything I’ve failed to be for you.

The truth is, I never wanted to leave. I never wanted to walk away from you, from your mother, from the life we were building together. But sometimes, life doesn’t give you the choices you think you deserve.

Your mother didn’t know everything. She never knew why I left, why I walked away from the farm, from our family. She thinks it was just work, but it wasn’t. There were things that she could never understand, things that I could never explain to her without losing everything.

I left because of the money. I left because I needed to survive.

The farm, Alice, it wasn’t enough. Not anymore. We weren’t enough. I had to go, to find a way out before everything we had worked for came crashing down.

I know that might not make sense to you. You might hate me for it. I would hate me too.

But please, know this—I never stopped thinking about you. I never stopped wondering how you were, who you were becoming. You’re everything I hoped you’d be. You’ve turned into someone strong, someone who doesn’t need anyone’s approval to succeed.

I just wanted you to know that. I wanted you to know that, no matter what, I loved you.

Love, always,
Dad.”

The letter felt like a punch to the gut. I read it over and over, hoping that it would make sense, hoping that there would be something in those words that could fix all the years of resentment. But it didn’t.

I crumpled the letter and threw it into the wind, where it fluttered and fell to the ground. It didn’t matter anymore. The past, all of it, the lies, the abandonment, it didn’t matter.

I walked toward the house.

Mom was inside, washing dishes in the kitchen, her back turned toward me. Her hands were rough from years of hard work, from the soil, the water, the endless chores. I couldn’t help but wonder if she ever felt that same emptiness I felt, or if she had just buried it under the layers of work she did to keep the farm running.

“Alice?” Her voice broke through the silence, and I stopped in my tracks.

“Yeah?” I answered, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Are you okay?”

I shook my head, though she couldn’t see it. “No. I’m not.”

I could hear her sigh from the other side of the room, but she didn’t turn around. She just kept scrubbing the dishes, her movements mechanical.

“I never wanted you to feel like this, you know? I didn’t want you to feel like you were second,” she said quietly, but I could feel the weight of her words. She hadn’t wanted to be second either.

“I know,” I replied, my voice thick. “I know, Mom. But it wasn’t just the farm. It wasn’t just you working. It was him. It was Dad, leaving without a word.”

I heard her pause.

“Alice, I didn’t know.” She said it with such conviction that it almost made me believe her.

But I didn’t know if I could ever believe her fully. Could she have really known nothing? Could she have not understood what it felt like to be abandoned by someone who promised to love you?

“I think I need to go,” I said, suddenly feeling suffocated.

“What do you mean?” Mom asked, her voice laced with confusion.

“I need to figure things out. I need to stop looking for answers in places that don’t make sense.”

I left the kitchen before she could say anything else.

I took the old truck and drove down the dirt road, the sun setting behind me, casting long shadows over the fields. The wind whipped through the open window, and I could feel the tension in my chest ease as the distance grew between me and everything I’d ever known.

I didn’t have a destination, but the road seemed to know where I was going.

Somewhere along the way, I found myself in front of an old coffee shop by the edge of a small town. I stepped inside, the doorbell chiming as I entered, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee wrapped around me.

The barista, a young man with a kind smile, greeted me.

“First time here?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, surprised by the unfamiliarity of it all. “I just… needed a break.”

“I get it,” he said, his eyes warm. “What can I get you?”

I ordered a black coffee and sat at one of the tables by the window, staring out at the street, watching life go by. I felt disconnected from it all, like I was standing on the outside, looking in.

Then I heard someone sit down across from me.

It was a woman. She was older than me, maybe by ten years, with silver streaks in her hair and a quiet demeanor that felt both comforting and foreign.

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help but notice you,” she said gently. “You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

I looked up, surprised by the sudden attention.

“Are you a therapist or something?” I joked, but my voice cracked.

She smiled softly. “Not exactly. But sometimes, talking to someone you don’t know can help.”

I didn’t know why, but I felt the need to tell her everything. I told her about the farm, about Dad, about the letter, about all the things I thought I understood but didn’t. And she listened. She didn’t interrupt or offer advice. She just listened.

When I was done, I felt lighter, like the weight I had been carrying for so long was finally starting to lift.

“You know,” she said quietly, “sometimes we don’t get the answers we think we deserve. But we get what we need. And what you need, I think, is to forgive yourself.”

I stared at her, unsure what to say.

“Forgive myself?” I asked, feeling lost.

“Yes,” she nodded. “Forgive yourself for carrying the pain for so long. Forgive your mom, forgive your dad. Not for them, but for you.”

I sat in silence for a long moment before replying, “How do you do that? How do you forgive?”

She smiled gently. “It’s a process. And sometimes, it doesn’t happen all at once. But if you hold onto it too tightly, it will control you. Let it go. Not for anyone else, but for your own peace.”

I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure if I believed her.

But when I left that coffee shop, the world felt a little bit different. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I might be able to breathe again.

Mom and I talked later that evening. We didn’t resolve everything, but it felt like the beginning of something new. Something that, for the first time in years, I could accept.

It’s not always easy to let go of the past, but sometimes it’s the only way forward.

And maybe, just maybe, forgiveness is the key to healing.