For years, I ignored the little box sitting under our Christmas tree. My husband, Tyler, said it was a keepsake from his first love. “It’s just a harmless memory,” he insisted. But memories shouldn’t hang around like a dark cloud.
Last Christmas, my curiosity got the better of me. When I finally opened that box, everything changed.
I met Tyler when I was 32 and he was 35. From the very first moment, it felt like destiny. Our connection was instant, like stepping outside to feel the first snowfall of the year. He made me laugh, and his calm demeanor felt like a safe haven.
But as time went on, I started to see that his calmness wasn’t confidence—it was avoidance.
Our first Christmas together was nothing short of magical. Soft music filled the air, candles flickered warmly, and snow gently covered the world outside.
We unwrapped gifts, and ribbons and bows piled up around us like colorful confetti. That’s when I noticed it—a small, neatly wrapped box sitting under the tree with a slightly flattened bow.
“Oh,” I said, tilting my head toward it. “Is that for me?”
Tyler glanced at it briefly and shook his head. “No, that’s from my first love. She gave it to me before we broke up. I’ve never opened it.”
My smile faded. “Why keep it?”
He shrugged and focused on folding the sweater I’d just given him. “It’s just a memory. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Something felt off, but I didn’t push him. People hold on to strange things, I thought. Love letters, ticket stubs—who was I to judge?
Years went by. Tyler and I got married, had two kids, and built a busy, happy life together. Every Christmas, that box returned to its spot under the tree, untouched. Tyler’s explanation never changed.
One year, I asked again. “Why do you keep that gift, Tyler? You’ve had it longer than you’ve had me.”
He sighed, barely looking up. “Nicole, it’s just a box. Let it be.”
I let it go, even though a part of me wanted to scream. Back then, I thought peace was better than knowing the truth.
As our kids grew up and moved out, the house became quieter. Yet, that box never missed a Christmas. It sat under the tree like a ghost, wrapped in the same pristine paper. It was no longer just a gift—it was a symbol of everything unspoken between us.
Then last Christmas, something inside me snapped. I’d just finished putting away dinner leftovers when I saw that box again, sitting smugly under the tree. My chest tightened. I couldn’t walk away this time.
Before I could think twice, I grabbed it and tore the wrapping apart. The flattened bow fell to the floor as I opened the cardboard box inside.
A letter lay folded neatly within, its yellowed paper showing signs of age. My hands trembled as I unfolded it.
“Tyler,
I’m pregnant. I know this is a shock, but I didn’t know where else to turn. My parents found out and are forcing me to stay away from you, but if you meet me at the bus station on the 22nd, we can run away together. I’ll be wearing a green coat.
Please, meet me there. I’m so sorry I lied when I broke up with you. My father was watching. I never stopped loving you.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I felt my knees buckle, and I sank onto the sofa, the letter shaking in my hands. She had waited for him. She poured her heart into this message, and Tyler had never even opened it.
Tyler’s footsteps echoed down the stairs. When he saw me holding the letter, his face turned pale.
“What did you do?!” he shouted. “That was my most precious memory!”
I stood up, holding the letter high like evidence in a courtroom. “Memory? You’ve clung to this for thirty years, Tyler, and you never even read it? She was pregnant, waiting for you at a bus station! And you didn’t show up because you didn’t bother to open it?”
His face crumpled in shock. “I didn’t… I was scared.”
“Coward,” I spat, thrusting the letter toward him.
He took it with shaking hands and read it, his shoulders trembling as the reality sank in. He let out a low, guttural sound and dropped onto the sofa, burying his face in his hands.
“She was waiting for me,” he whispered. “And I didn’t go.”
I stood over him, feeling nothing but exhaustion. I had spent years waiting, too—waiting for him to love me fully, without the shadow of her haunting our lives.
“Tyler,” I said quietly, “I’m done. I’ve spent too long being second to a ghost.”
He didn’t stop me as I turned and walked away.
The divorce was quiet and simple. We split everything evenly—the house, the cars, the memories. Tyler eventually tracked her down. I heard through our youngest that she was happily married, and their son wanted nothing to do with him. He had missed his chance. Twice.
As for me, I moved into a cozy little apartment. Last Christmas Eve, I sat by the window, sipping tea and watching the soft glow of lights from the neighboring buildings. There was no tree, no gifts, and no ghosts.
Just peace.
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