Tides of Regret

The roses on the bedside table had already begun to wilt. In a green glass vase, a weeping teddy bear clutched a bright fabric heart, the words "Get Well Soon" emblazoned in faded letters across its downy paws. It stared out at the room with plastic eyes, witnessing the slow decay of everything around it. The discordant beeps of hospital machinery and the rhythmic hiss of a mechanical ventilator, breathing for a patient on the other side of the flimsy curtain, replaced the vibrant hum of life. Jim lay in bed, waiting for the merciful touch of death.

In his frail hands, a yellowed sheet of paper softened with age. His daughter, Sally, had found it in the attic, tucked away inside a leather wallet with newspaper clippings from his past. One told the story of his time working on the islands when his boat had gone adrift. Ethel had stayed awake all night by the fire, waiting for news that he’d been found, comforting the children who wondered why Dad hadn’t come home. He’d been marooned on the lonely northern side of Bay Island, fighting off sharks and crawling ashore. By the time the Coast Guard spotted his orange flotation vest on the beach, he’d nearly given up. Life carried on. Another clipping detailed his time as an emergency services volunteer, when he saved a group of stranded tourists from freezing at the summit of Mount Lesley. He’d been honored with a medal for his efforts.

But the letter in his hands spoke of no heroics. It was a document of shame.

Jim read over the words he had written fifty years ago, the weight of sorrow still pinching at his heart. He had been forty-one, still feeling in his prime despite the bald spot that had crept across his scalp and the grey whiskers replacing his once-brown beard. Ethel had left him, an unheard-of scandal in those days. With stinging pride, he had accepted her decision. She moved to Bramley Bay with the kids, leaving him to start over in a small place by the beach. They’d still meet, walking the shore as their children scoured for shells, exchanging polite conversations about their separate lives.

Then there was Eliza. They’d known each other since childhood, attending school together in Port Aramac. Their relationship had always been a delicate dance, a game of cat and mouse—never quite a love story, but something close. The timing had never been right. Either he was with someone when she was single, or she’d moved interstate when he was ready. They were like two ships passing in opposing tides, always within sight but never aligning.

Now, he stared at the letter in his hands—his apology to Eliza, written decades ago. His eyes welled up with tears as the fluorescent hospital lights flickered coldly above him. He had written the letter to apologize for leaving her, for moving on while she struggled through her own hardships. The weight of those decisions pressed down on him now, heavier than ever.

Eliza had been the love of his life—if only for one brief, stolen moment. Their passion had never truly ignited, but it had always smoldered, like embers of a fire refusing to die in the rain. They had spent one night together, a fleeting glimpse of what could have been. But she had left, fearful of her husband’s wrath and what might happen if he discovered her secret. Jim had known she needed more from him, but he hadn’t been able to give it.

The door creaked open, and a nurse stepped in. "Mr. Adams, you have a visitor," she said softly.

Jim struggled to sit up in bed. His heart raced. Eliza.

With Sally’s help, he had tracked her down and invited her to see him. He wiped his face with a trembling hand as Eliza entered the room. Her eyes, still blue and full of life, met his. Though framed with wrinkles, they sparkled with a warmth that washed over him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, tears escaping despite his effort to contain them.

“For what, dear?” she asked gently, her voice soft but firm.

“For not being there when you needed me. For moving on. For—” His voice broke, the sobs overcoming him.

She studied him, her gaze lingering on his frail form beneath the thin hospital sheet.

“Oh, Jim,” she said, her voice filled with tenderness as she took his hand in hers, “you don’t need to do this.”

“I do. I’ve lived with regret all these years, and you need to know—I never meant to hurt you.”

Eliza had arrived on a bus for senior citizens, organized by the local Lions Club. She had come not knowing what to expect. Seeing Jim now—so gaunt, so diminished under the harsh hospital lights—hit her with the weight of time’s passage. She had hated him once, resented him for leaving her. When she learned he had remarried, she had cut all ties. She had never forgiven him. Not truly.

“You did hurt me, Jim,” she said, her voice trembling. “I thought you loved me.”

“I did. I do.” He handed her the letter. “I wrote this the night I married Chelsea. I’ve carried it with me all these years. I was a coward.”

Eliza took the letter, feeling the brittle edges of the paper under her fingertips. She didn’t need to read it to know what it said. She had lived the pain it described.

“What do you expect this to change?” she asked quietly. “You weren’t there when it mattered.”

Jim, drowning in tears, could barely respond. "Read it... I just need you to know I’m sorry.”

She stood slowly, leaning on her walker, still holding the letter. “You took everything away the day you married her, Jim. I had hoped... but that hope died when you walked away.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Eliza set the letter gently on the bedside table. “I don’t need to read it. I’ve made peace with the past. It belongs where it is—in the past.”

She shuffled toward the door, her steps slow and deliberate. Jim watched her go, his heart breaking all over again. She turned back, her eyes softer now, filled with a sadness that matched his.

“I forgive you, Jim. And I hope you can forgive me. I wish I’d had the courage to leave him.”

She walked back to him, bent over, and kissed his forehead.

“I love you, Jim,” she whispered.

The tides, at last, had turned. Jim, trembling, reached for the letter. With a final, shaking breath, he tore it into pieces and let them fall into the wastebasket by his bed.