They had.
And they hurt.
But we slowly began filling in the missing pieces.
She told me stories from when I was too young to remember.
My first word was apparently “duck,” which I used for almost everything.
I used to fall asleep holding her thumb.
Once, I tried feeding mashed peas to the family cat.
I told her about college, terrible roommates, jobs I loved, jobs I hated, and the time I flooded my first apartment after watching one plumbing tutorial and deciding I was qualified.
She laughed so hard she nearly spilled her coffee.
Eventually, I began reading the birthday letters she’d saved.
One for every year we’d been apart.
Some were pages long.
Others were only a few sentences.
But they all said essentially the same thing:
I never stopped loving you. I never stopped waiting.
The letter that broke me was from my sixteenth birthday.
She had written:
“Dear George,
You’re sixteen today. I imagine you’re taller than me now. I hope you still hate crusts. I hope someone still checks under your bed when you can’t sleep, even if you’d never admit you need it.
I don’t know if you’ll ever read this.
