Chapter 22: The Letter She’ll Read Too Late

He didn’t send it at first.
He wrote it. Rewrote it. Saved it in drafts.

He wasn’t sure she’d read it.
Wasn’t sure she’d care.

But he wrote it anyway—
because someday, she would go looking.

Maybe not the day he died.
Maybe not the week after.
But eventually, grief would open the drawer she kept closed.

And when she did, the letter would be waiting.

Honey,

I don’t know when you’re reading this.
Maybe I’m already gone.
Maybe you’re sitting alone at the kitchen table with your phone in your hand,
or maybe you found this printed out in a box you never meant to open.

Either way, I want you to hear me now—while there’s still time for this truth to matter.

I never stopped loving you.
Not once.

Not even when you were cold.
Not even when JM tried to take what we built.
Not even when I saw you pretend online like I didn’t exist.

Because I knew who you really were.
And I never fell in love with the surface.
I fell in love with the soul.

I gave you my strength when you had none.
I stood by you when your world was falling apart.
I took the shame, the silence, the empty replies, and I still showed up.

You once said I was hard to love.
That I was too blunt.
Maybe I was.
But I never lied to you.
I never played games.
I told you the truth, even when it hurt me.

And if you’re reading this now,
it means I never got to say goodbye in person.

So here’s my goodbye:

Thank you for the good days.
Thank you for letting me love your kids.
Thank you for the little moments—
the karaoke in Olongapo,
the early morning messages,
the time you said,
“You are already my husband.”

I carried those moments when you thought I was carrying bitterness.
But it was always love. Even through the tears.

You told me once that life was easier now.
And I’m glad.
That means I did my job.
That means my love worked.

Just don’t forget me.
Not the version you created in anger,
but the one who held you together when the world was too much.

I’ll see you again—
in memory,
in music,
maybe even in the wind that passes through Guimaras.

You’ll know it’s me.
Because love like mine doesn’t die.
It just waits.

—Stephen

She’ll read it one day.
She might cry.
She might smile.
She might whisper, “I’m sorry,”
or say nothing at all.

But the letter will have done its job.
Because love, even when read too late,
still speaks.