I rehearsed the whole thing in my head a dozen times before I hit call.
Paced the living room, sat down, stood back up. My hand was actually shaking when I tapped her name. “Salome – Old Number?” it still said. I never updated it. I didn’t need to. I knew the digits like muscle memory.
When she picked up, I almost hung up. But she said “Hello?” in that cautious way, and something in me cracked open. So I said it—messy, out of order, voice cracking. I told her I was sorry for ghosting after graduation. For missing her mom’s funeral. For everything.
There was this long silence, and then she just exhaled, like I’d bothered her mid-grocery run or something.
“It’s been years,” she said, flat. “I don’t need this now.”
No anger. No relief. Just… apathy.
And that hurt more than if she’d screamed at me.
I didn’t know what to say. My mind scrambled for something else, anything. I told her I saw her book got published. That I was proud of her. That she always said she’d do it, and she actually did.
Another pause. Then a dry, “Thanks.” Not even sarcastic—just blank.
I guess I always thought there’d be a crack in the wall. Some little opening where we could slide back in. Not to what we were, but maybe something adjacent. Civil. I would’ve taken awkward coffee. I would’ve taken anything.
But she said, “I’m about to head into a meeting,” and I knew she wasn’t. I heard a baby crying in the background. She muted fast, but I caught it.
A baby.
And that’s when I realized—
She hadn’t told me.
After hanging up, I felt hollowed out. Like someone had scooped all the air from my lungs with a rusty spoon. The phone slipped from my fingers onto the couch cushion beside me, and I stared at the ceiling, replaying every second of our conversation.
Why hadn’t she mentioned the baby? Was it because she didn’t trust me enough anymore? Or worse—because she didn’t think it mattered?
My guilt doubled over on itself. It wasn’t just about the past; it was about how much time I’d wasted thinking I could fix things later. Later turned into years. Years turned into silence. And silence turned into whatever this was—a cold, indifferent exchange between two people who used to share secrets under starlit skies.
I couldn’t stop picturing Salome holding that baby. Her hair tied back, glasses perched on her nose as she read bedtime stories aloud. The same way she used to read drafts of her writing to me late at night, asking if it made sense or if I thought anyone would care. Back then, I cared so deeply. Why hadn’t I shown her that sooner?
The next morning, I woke up groggy and heavy-hearted. Sleep hadn’t come easy, and when it did, it came tangled with dreams of old memories: walking through campus together, sitting cross-legged on her dorm floor surrounded by notebooks and snacks, laughing until our stomachs hurt. Each dream ended abruptly, leaving me feeling incomplete, like pieces of myself were scattered somewhere far away.
I decided to look her up online. Partly out of curiosity, partly desperation. Maybe seeing glimpses of her life would help me understand why she reacted the way she did—or at least give me closure. Social media felt invasive, but I reasoned that if she wanted privacy, she wouldn’t have posted anything publicly anyway.
Her profile picture stopped me cold. There she was, radiant as ever, cradling a tiny bundle wrapped in a soft yellow blanket. Her smile was warm yet guarded, like she was letting the world peek into her joy without fully inviting them in. In the caption, she simply wrote, “New adventures start here.”
Scrolling further, I found posts celebrating milestones: her first book launch party, a cozy home office setup filled with plants and books, an anniversary photo with someone whose face wasn’t visible but whose arm rested protectively around her shoulders. He wore a wedding band.
My chest tightened. Of course she moved on. How could she not? What kind of fool was I to assume she’d wait around while I sorted myself out?
Still, I kept scrolling. One post caught my eye—a video clip set to music. It showed snippets of her daily life: typing furiously at her desk, cooking dinner, playing peek-a-boo with the baby. In one frame, she looked directly at the camera, smiling softly before turning back to the child. Something stirred inside me—a mix of admiration and regret. This was the life she built without me. A good life. A beautiful life.
Then I noticed something odd. Beneath several photos, comments poured in from friends congratulating her on recent achievements. But none mentioned the father of her child. No tagged partner, no joint updates. Even in group shots, he remained conspicuously absent. Who was he? And why wasn’t he part of these moments?
Curiosity gnawed at me until I couldn’t ignore it any longer. Against better judgment, I sent her another message. Shorter this time, less emotional. Just three words:
Who’s the dad?
Hours passed. Days, even. No response came. At first, I figured she ignored me again. But deep down, I hoped she might answer eventually. After all, wasn’t curiosity human nature? Didn’t everyone want answers sometimes?
One evening, just as I settled into bed with a cup of tea, my phone buzzed. My heart leapt. It was Salome.
Why are you asking? she replied.
I hesitated, unsure how honest to be. Finally, I typed:
I don’t know. Maybe because I feel like I lost the right to know anything about your life. But also…because I care.
Another long pause followed. Then:
He died. Last year.
Her words hit me like a freight train. All the air rushed out of me again. Dead. The father of her child was gone. Suddenly, everything clicked—the muted tone during our call, the lack of updates about him, the quiet strength in her posts. She was grieving, alone, raising their baby while carrying the weight of loss.
I wanted to respond immediately, to offer condolences or ask how she was coping. But what could I possibly say that wouldn’t sound hollow? Instead, I chose simplicity:
I’m so sorry.
This time, she answered quickly:
Thank you. It’s hard. Really hard. But I’m okay. We’re okay.
We. She included the baby. A lump formed in my throat.
For days afterward, we exchanged messages sporadically. Nothing too personal, mostly small talk about work, hobbies, random musings. Slowly, though, cracks began to form in the walls between us. She shared bits of her story: how they met, fell in love, planned a future together. How cancer stole him away far too soon. How she struggled balancing grief with motherhood, often feeling like she failed at both.
Listening to her opened old wounds within myself. Guilt resurfaced—not just for abandoning her once upon a time, but for assuming I understood her struggles based solely on my perspective. Life dealt her blows I couldn’t fathom, yet here she stood, resilient despite everything.
Eventually, she asked about me. Not superficial questions, either. Real ones. About my family, my fears, my hopes. For the first time in years, I let someone see beneath my carefully constructed facade. Sharing those parts of myself felt terrifying—and liberating.
Months went by. Our friendship grew stronger, rooted in mutual respect rather than nostalgia. When she invited me to visit one weekend, I accepted without hesitation. Seeing her face-to-face felt surreal, like stepping into a dream where reality blurred with possibility.
Her house smelled of lavender and freshly baked cookies. Toys littered the living room floor, and framed photos adorned every surface. As soon as I walked in, a little girl toddled toward me, clutching a stuffed bunny. Salome smiled behind her, watching silently.
“This is Lily,” she introduced gently. “Say hi, sweetheart.”
Lily blinked up at me, wide-eyed and curious. Then, surprising us both, she reached out her arms. Instinctively, I bent down and scooped her up. Her giggles melted something frozen inside me.
Over lunch, Salome talked openly about her journey. About finding purpose in parenthood, learning to forgive herself for surviving when others didn’t, embracing uncertainty instead of fearing it. Her courage inspired me profoundly.
Before leaving, I thanked her—for forgiving me, for trusting me again, for reminding me what true strength looks like. She hugged me tightly, whispering, “You deserved a second chance too, you know.”
On the drive home, tears streamed down my cheeks. Not sad ones, but grateful ones. Grateful for redemption, for connection, for lessons learned the hard way. Life taught me that apologies can’t undo damage, but sincerity can bridge divides. That people change, grow, heal—but only if given space to do so. Most importantly, it taught me that love, whether romantic or platonic, requires effort. Effort worth giving.
So here’s my takeaway: Don’t wait for “later” to make amends. Take responsibility early, show up consistently, listen deeply. Because relationships matter more than pride ever will.
If this resonated with you, please share and like! Let’s spread kindness and remind each other that it’s never too late to reconnect. ❤️
