A Thousand Sundays

A Thousand Sundays

Claire hadn’t expected the quiet to suit her as well as it did. She’d spent years in the whirlwind of public life: committee hearings, campaign buses, news cycles that never stopped spinning. But here in this Midwestern college town, the silence felt soft instead of sharp. A hum of birdsong on Sunday mornings. The low murmur of NPR in the kitchen. Her own voice, singing alto in the Episcopal church choir, steady and certain.

Her house was small. It was an old craftsman cottage with a porch swing, a tangled garden she was slowly taming, and enough room for a guest without making things feel crowded. She walked to the farmers market every Saturday, chatted with the woman at the bakery who knew her name and her coffee order. When people recognized her, they were kind enough to pretend they didn’t. And she let them. It was her first real home in years.

But there was still a room in her heart she hadn’t let anyone else walk into.

His name was Daniel.

They’d met in college, in a history seminar that turned into late-night debates, long walks, and eventually, something that felt like it could last forever. Everyone assumed they’d get married. Claire did too. She waited for him to ask. Two years went by. And he didn’t. Not because he didn’t love her, but because he was afraid he would eventually fail her, like his father had failed his mother. That he’d bring her down with him. So he let her go.

She moved on. Married someone else. Had children. Built a life. But even in its happiest moments, it was never quite what it had been with Daniel. She’d once told him, in a whisper under the stars at the edge of a lake, “I think you’re my person.” He had held her hand tighter and replied, “You were my person. Always have been.”

But that wasn’t enough, not then. And so they drifted. They emailed for a while. Kept in touch. Then, after Daniel’s mother died, Claire had sent a kind message. He hadn’t replied. And that was it. Fifteen years of silence. Then twenty. Then thirty.

It was devastating. It wasn’t just silence, it was abandonment. Claire forgave him eventually, even if she never really stopped wondering what she’d done wrong. In therapy, she realized he’d been protecting not just himself, but her. And even in the hurt, she never stopped loving him.

Six years ago, she mailed him a letter, simple and honest. Not asking for a response, just needing him to know he had mattered. That their friendship, or whatever it was, had changed her life for the better. She never knew if he read it.

But now, as she packed up her legislative office for the last time, she was ready to let the last door swing open.

She mailed the second letter to his church. She didn’t even know if he was still there.

Dear Daniel,

I’ve written and rewritten this so many times in my head. But there’s no perfect version—just the truest one. So here it is.

I bought a house. A little cottage in the college town we first met.

It’s not fancy, but it’s mine. A porch with room for coffee and books. A kitchen that smells like butter and rosemary. I sing in the church choir again. I walk to the farmers market on Saturdays. There’s a bookstore I love and a bakery that knows my name. It’s quiet. It’s real. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt fully like myself.

And still, when I picture true happiness…

When I picture home… I see you in it.

That might be selfish. And maybe unfair. I know you have a life. I know I’m not entitled to anything from you. But I also know I can’t go through the rest of my years half-awake. Numb. Afraid to say what I mean.

So this is me, saying it: I love you. I never stopped.

I want you, exactly as you are.

There’s a room here for you. A space. A life. Not a request for a visit. Not a test. Just a door that’s open if you want to walk through it.

And if you don’t, I’ll be okay. Truly.

I have built something beautiful here. I am living fully, finally. I won’t collapse without you.

But I also won’t pretend.

Because if I ever grow old with someone, if I ever share quiet mornings and evening walks and inside jokes over soup again,

It’s always been you.

So. That’s it.

The address is below. I won’t write again.

If you come, come because you want to stay.

—Claire

She didn’t wait for an answer. She moved. Got her garden going. Bought a new coffee grinder. Cried when her dog died. Kept working part-time. Laughed with friends. The ache was still there, quieter now. She even went on a few dates with nice men. Safe men. But none of them were Daniel.

And then, one Sunday afternoon, there was a knock at the door.

She opened it and almost forgot how to breathe.

Daniel stood there, older, yes, but still him. Holding his bag in one hand, his heart in the other.

Before she could speak, he asked, voice low and trembling, “Can I kiss you?”

She nodded.

And that was it.

He stayed in the guest room at first. They moved slowly, walks to the market, Sunday dinners, daily devotions at the kitchen table. He took care of her dog’s grave in the backyard. She sang in the choir, and he sat in the pews. They didn’t need to rush. They’d waited long enough.

But one night, as they lay side by side in bed, finally together, finally home, Claire whispered, “I remember I waited for you to ask me once. And when you didn’t, I thought I had to move on. I wish I’d asked you instead.”

Daniel turned to her, tears in his eyes. “I was afraid I’d hurt you. But I hurt you anyway.”

“Yes,” she said. “But I’m here. We’re here. And I forgive you.”

Six months later, on December 21, they were married in a quiet ceremony at the little Episcopal church. They walked home hand in hand, the winter light soft and golden. He moved in fully that night.

And every Sunday after: church, music, soup, slow kisses, warm beds, they counted their blessings.

A thousand Sundays, Claire thought. Maybe more. Maybe less.

But even if she only got a hundred—or ten—she knew the truth.

She had been chosen.

She had been loved.

And she had chosen love right back.

The End