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| The Last Letter |
The words didn’t come easily, but then again, they never had.
She closed her eyes, leaning back against the pillow, letting her mind drift. The years had been cruel in their passing, stealing not just her vitality but the connection she had cherished most deeply. Her daughter, Camille, had been everything once—a bundle of bright energy that filled rooms with laughter. But time and life had eroded their bond. Pride and unspoken pain had hardened the space between them into silence, until it was too wide to cross.
Margaret inhaled slowly, her chest tight not just from the illness but from the weight of regret. It’s not too late, she reminded herself. Not yet.
With trembling resolve, she bent to her task, her pen scratching faintly against the paper.
My dearest Camille,
I hope you’ll forgive me for writing to you like this, after so many years of silence. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I want to believe you’ll read these words. I want to believe that, somewhere deep inside you, there’s still a place for me.
By the time you receive this letter, I’ll be gone. I suppose that’s why I finally found the courage to write it. I’m not proud of that—I wish I’d been braver when it mattered. But the truth is, I’ve always been afraid. Afraid of saying the wrong thing. Afraid of rejection. Afraid of facing the mess I made of us.
But I can’t leave this world without trying, at least, to tell you the things I should have said long ago.
First, and most importantly: I love you. I have always loved you. From the moment I held you in my arms, I knew you were my greatest gift. And though I failed you in countless ways, my love for you has never faltered. I just didn’t know how to show it.
Violet paused, her chest heaving slightly. The pen slipped from her fingers, rolling to the edge of the table. The nurse had warned her not to overexert herself, but how could she stop now? She wasn’t just writing a letter—she was pouring out years of suppressed emotions, untangling a lifetime of regret.
She closed her eyes and pictured Camille as she had been at six years old, her golden curls bouncing as she danced around the living room, a tiara perched precariously on her head. Margaret had been so proud of her then. But the memories that followed—the shouting matches, the slammed doors, the final, bitter argument that had sent Camille away—those memories cut like glass.
With a deep breath, she picked up the pen again.
I want you to know that I see now what I couldn’t see then. I see how my words wounded you, how my stubbornness pushed you away. I see how I let my own pain blind me to yours. I was grieving your father in my own way, and I know now that I left you to grieve alone. For that, I am so deeply sorry.
I don’t expect this letter to fix what’s broken between us. I’m not naïve enough to think that words on a page can undo years of hurt. But I hope—oh, how I hope—that these words can plant a seed. That maybe, someday, you’ll be able to forgive me. That maybe, someday, you’ll remember the good moments we shared, and not just the bad ones.
Do you remember the summer we spent at the lake house? You must have been nine or ten. I can still see you running barefoot along the dock, your laughter echoing over the water. You were fearless then. I hope you still are. I hope life hasn’t dimmed your light.
If there’s one thing I wish for you, Camille, it’s that you live your life fully. Don’t let anger or regret hold you back the way I did. Be bold. Be kind. Love with your whole heart, even when it scares you. Especially when it scares you.
I’ve spent so much of my life holding onto pain, and all it’s done is steal time that I can never get back. Don’t make the same mistake I did. Let go of what hurts you, and make room for what heals you.
Her hand faltered, the pen slipping again. Violet blinked against the tears that blurred her vision. She had more to say, but her strength was fading. She could feel it—the heaviness settling into her chest, the faint chill creeping into her limbs. She had to finish.
With a trembling hand, she scrawled her final words.
I love you, Camille. I always have. And I always will.
Forever,
Mom
The letter was folded with care, tucked into an envelope, and sealed with a single kiss pressed to its surface. Violet placed it on the bedside table, her fingers lingering on it for a moment before she leaned back, her eyes drifting shut. For the first time in years, her heart felt light.
The house was quiet when Camille arrived two days later, its stillness thick with the weight of absence. She stood on the front porch for a long moment, staring at the chipped white paint on the door and the wreath her mother had hung last Christmas. It was faded now, the pinecones brittle and speckled with dust. She hadn’t been home in years—not since their last argument—but now there was no time left for reconciliation. Her mother was gone.
She stepped inside, the air cold and stale. The faint scent of lavender lingered, a ghostly reminder of her mother’s presence. Camille glanced around the living room—everything looked the same, and yet, it all felt so unfamiliar. Her mother’s favorite blanket was folded neatly over the back of the sofa, her knitting basket tucked in the corner. These small details felt like accusations, reminders of the life Camille had chosen to leave behind.
“Camille.”
The voice startled her, and she turned to see her brother, Paul, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. His frame filled the narrow space, and though he was only two years older, the lines around his eyes and the gray streaking his hair made him look decades ahead of her. They hadn’t spoken in years, their estrangement mirroring the one Emily had with their mother.
“You’re late,” Paul said, his voice quiet but firm.
Camille flinched, guilt turning to defensiveness. “I came as soon as I could.”
Paul studied her for a moment before reaching into his pocket. When he pulled out an envelope, Camille’s breath caught. The cream-colored paper was faintly textured, and the lavender scent was stronger now, as if her mother were standing right beside them. Paul held it out to her, his hand steady, his expression unreadable.
“She left this for you,” he said.
Camille stared at the envelope. “She… she knew I wasn’t going to make it?”
Paul sighed. “I think she hoped you would. But she wanted you to have this either way.”
Camille took the envelope, her fingers trembling as she ran them over her name written in her mother’s careful cursive. She could feel Paul watching her, but he didn’t say anything. After a moment, he turned and disappeared into the kitchen.
Camille sank onto the sofa and opened the envelope. The words on the page pulled her back into the past, into memories she had buried beneath years of anger and hurt. By the time she reached the end, tears blurred her vision. She folded the letter carefully and held it to her chest.
For a long time, she sat in silence, her mother’s words filling the cracks of her broken heart. And for the first time in years, she allowed herself to let go—of anger, of regret, of the walls she had built to keep the pain out.
Beneath a soft December sky, Violet Harris rested. And in the hearts of her children, something new began to grow.
