The Letter I'll Never Send

I opened the cabinet and forgot how to breathe.

The toaster sat where I'd left it years ago when we moved into the house. It was still in its original box, tucked away for special occasions. It was one of those toasters that crisped a design of a cartoon character onto your bread–not very practical, but fun for Saturday morning breakfasts with my husband and toddler. Had I ever pulled it out on a Saturday morning, though? No...not once. I've never pulled it back out after sticking it up here. In fact, I forgot it was in here because I hardly ever open this cabinet. It was a catch all for water bottles we never used and Red Solo Cups we keep on hand for gatherings.

Instead of reaching into the cabinet for the Red Solo Cups I needed for a BBQ we were hosting, I slumped down onto the kitchen floor holding onto the memory the toaster gave me–the memory of my best friend who no longer spoke to me. We had known each other since we were ten years old, and growing up with her in my life was a highlight of my childhood. Now, both in our late twenties, I wish I could say navigating adulthood with her was just as fun. We used to talk on a weekly basis, until one day... she just stopped responding to me. My throat started to sting and I felt tears rising to my eyes like a tidal wave. My chest tightened with the urge to pick up my phone and dial her number, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Not after how much time had passed. Instead, I grabbed a memo pad and pen off the counter and started to pour out all the feelings I'd submerged for years:

"Dear H.

I don't know what I did, or if I did anything at all, to make you stop being my friend. I wish I could ask you, but you've made it clear you want distance between us.

I think about you every day. The smallest things remind me of you: the movie we loved as kids that my husband has never seen and wanted to watch recently; the friendship bracelets we made buried in my jewelry box that I found when looking for jewelry to wear to a wedding; the magnet you gave me that I see every time I open the fridge; the t-shirt you gifted me that sits in my dresser door; and this silly cartoon character toaster you gave me as a gift when I got engaged.

I don’t know why you stopped talking to me after your baby was born. That's when I noticed you started to cut ties. I remember the day you told me you were pregnant and how we screamed with joy together. I waited every day for the text with a picture of your baby’s tiny fingers. I mailed you a gift with a stuffed animal I hope he or she loves, but you never told me if you got it. I texted you on your birthday and asked how life with a new baby was, but all you said was 'Thank you.' The silence from you grew so loud, it swallowed me whole.

I never told you this, but I had a baby, too. A boy. His name is Samuel. He has my wavy hair and my husband's gray-blue eyes. He loves bath time, hates socks, and his favorite song is by your favorite country artist... another small reminder of you.

I wonder what your baby is like. Did you have a boy or a girl? What's their name? Are they walking yet? I imagine your voice singing them to sleep, your face lighting up when they call you “Mama.”

I miss you. I miss the life we planned–the one where we would be friends forever, where our babies would grow up together, where we'd set them up for an arranged marriage if one was a boy and one was girl (like we always joked about).

I don't know if you burned the bridge between us, or if it just fell apart when we weren’t looking. Was it my fault? I wish I knew. But I guess there are many things I'll never know.

Wherever you are, I hope you know I'll always have love in my heart for you... no matter the reasoning for the space between us now. I don't feel any ill feelings toward you, just sadness over how things between us have unfolded. You'll always be one of the best parts of me, and I'll miss you forever.

Love, E."

I exhale a mix of emotions as I sign my name at the bottom of the page. I fold over the corners of the paper, a tear rolling off my cheek and making a splash in the center. A giggle brushes past my lips when I notice the water formed a distorted heart. ‘How poetic,’ I think as I slip the piece of paper into the box with the toaster.

This is the letter I'll never send. Maybe one day the ache of losing someone so close to me will fade, or maybe it’ll turn into a subtle scar—a constant reminder of how it used to hurt, but proof that the hard things shape us into who we eventually become. Maybe one day it'll no longer sting when something reminds me of her, or I'll stop imagining what it would look like if she was still in my life. Maybe...

The sound of my toddler’s infectious giggle brings me back to the present. I look over to the living room and smile at my family–my husband and my son playing with monster trucks on the floor. I grab the red solo cups and announce that I’m ready to fire up the grill for the BBQ. As my ears are met with excitement and my toddler asks if he can blow bubbles while we wait for our dinner guests to arrive, I realize that healing doesn’t always come from answers. Sometimes, it comes from acceptance–from choosing to let go of what I may never understand and holding tighter to what’s still in front of me.

In loss, there’s always a gain, and the life I’m building with my boys is mine.

And while I may never have the answers I long for, I’ll always have that toaster tucked away in the cabinet, holding the words I needed to say to set myself free.