On the 20th anniversary of Charlotte’s death, all nine of my girls showed up at my house without warning.
I was overjoyed. We didn’t get to see each other often—usually just at Christmas or Easter—so having them all there meant everything.
I cooked dinner to celebrate.
We spent time remembering their mother, but something felt off. They were quiet. Their expressions were strange. I could sense something was wrong, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment.
Then Mia, my oldest daughter, spoke.
“Dad, there’s something we need to confess. We’ve been hiding it from you our whole lives. But it’s time you knew the truth.”
“What is it?” I asked.
She looked at me carefully before saying, “Mom never stopped loving you.”
The room fell silent. My stomach dropped.
“What?” I whispered.
Tina reached into her bag and pulled out a bundle of old envelopes.
“We found these years ago in our old house. Mom wrote them. They’re about you.”
I stared at them, speechless.
“She never sent them,” Mia explained. “At first, we didn’t understand why. But as we got older, we read them to try to understand her better.”
I swallowed. “What did they say?”
