t was supposed to be a celebration. My parents’ 40th wedding anniversary. Matching red shirts, a warm dinner, and a cake from my mom’s favorite overpriced bakery. Everything seemed perfect.
I snapped a picture just before we sat down. My dad, full of laughter, telling his usual stories. My mom, smiling beside him.
But something felt… off.
Her fingers kept fidgeting with her necklace. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. And when my dad laughed, she barely reacted.
At first, I told myself I was overthinking it. They had been married for forty years—of course, they weren’t as playful as they used to be. But the more I watched her, the more I saw it. The way she brushed off his jokes. The way she stayed quiet when he talked.
After dinner, I followed her into the kitchen to help with the dishes. I hesitated for a moment, then asked:
“Mom… are you okay?”
She stared at the sink. A long pause. Then she sighed.
“He’s a good man. Just… not the same man I married.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Sometimes people grow together,” she continued. “Sometimes they just grow. And you get so used to pretending everything’s fine, you forget what not-pretending even feels like.”
Her words hit hard.
I thought about all the times I had seen her brush off his forgetfulness, all the times she had said, “Oh, he didn’t mean it like that,” or “He’s just set in his ways.”
I looked back at the photo I had taken earlier. My dad, beaming. My mom, holding his hand—but looking like she was holding in something else entirely.
Then she turned to me and said something I wasn’t ready for:
“Promise me… if it ever starts to feel like that, you won’t wait forty years to say something.”
I nodded, but before I could respond, we heard the front door open.
Dad had gone out for “a quick walk” after dinner. But now, he was back—holding something in his hand.
Mom turned to look. And then… her eyes widened.
I followed her gaze. In his hands was a small, slightly crumpled envelope.
Without a word, he walked up to her and set it on the table.
“I found this in my old jacket,” he said softly.
Confused, my mom picked it up and slowly opened it.
Inside was a handwritten letter. A letter she had written to him over twenty years ago—but never sent.
As she unfolded the page, I saw the words at the top:
“Do you still love me the way you used to?”
She gasped.
Tears welled in her eyes as she read. My dad sat down beside her, silent, waiting.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said:
“I should have answered this a long time ago.”
And just like that… everything changed.
