It wasn’t that I didn’t care. God, I cared more than they’ll ever know.
But when the text came through—“Service is Saturday at 10”—I just stared at it for a long time. I never replied.
It wasn’t sudden. We’d all known Leandra was sick. The kind of sick people whisper about in kitchens while casserole dishes go cold. But still, when it actually happened, it felt like a punch I saw coming and somehow didn’t brace for.
I should’ve gone.
That’s what they all think. That I should’ve swallowed whatever grudge they think I had, thrown on something black, and stood next to them like we were all still one big, messy, broken family.
But what they don’t understand is what happened three months before Leandra died.
The voicemail.
She never meant for me to hear it—maybe she didn’t even realize she left it. But she did. Her voice, fragile but sharp: “I don’t care what she thinks. She made her choices. She’s not family to me anymore.”
I must’ve listened to it a dozen times. Just to make sure I wasn’t imagining it.
That night, I cried until my throat hurt. And then I stopped calling. Stopped showing up.
So when she passed, and the group thread lit up with logistics and floral arrangements, I said nothing. And when Saturday came, I stayed in bed with the curtains drawn.
They buried her without me.
And now, three weeks later, my cousin Ava finally messaged me. Just one sentence:
“You should know what Leandra gave Mom to pass on to you.”
I stared at the screen, heart pounding.
Then the typing bubbles popped up again.
“It’s a letter,” Ava wrote. “Mom tried to bring it by your place last week, but you weren’t home. She left it under your doormat.”
A letter? From Leandra? My stomach twisted into knots. Why would she write me? After everything?
I got up from the couch where I’d been sitting for who-knows-how-long and shuffled over to the door. Sure enough, tucked under the mat, there was an envelope. It looked worn, like someone had held it tightly before letting it go.
My hands shook as I opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded neatly. The handwriting was unmistakably hers—small and slanted, just like I remembered from birthday cards growing up.
Dear Marisol,
If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. And if you’re reading this, it also means I screwed things up pretty badly between us. For that, I am so sorry.
There’s no excuse for what I said that day—the thing you heard on the voicemail. You deserve better than those words, and you certainly deserve better than how I treated you afterward. I let pride get in the way of love, and that’s something I’ll regret forever.
But here’s the truth: I was scared. Scared of losing control, scared of being vulnerable, scared of admitting that maybe I was wrong about some things. So instead of talking to you, I pushed you away. I convinced myself it was easier that way. But it wasn’t. Not for either of us.
What I want you to know—what I hope you already knew deep down—is that you’ve always mattered to me. Even when I acted like you didn’t. Even when I said terrible things behind closed doors. You were my niece, and nothing could ever change that. No argument, no disagreement, no stubborn silence.
Enclosed is something I’ve been meaning to give you for years. It belonged to your grandmother—my mother—and it’s rightfully yours now. Please take care of it. It’s a piece of her, and a piece of our family. Something to remind you that blood runs deeper than any fight or misunderstanding.
Forgive me if you can. If not, I understand. Either way, please know that I loved you. Always.
Love,
Leandra
P.S. Don’t let them tell you how to grieve. Do it your way.
I flipped the page over, half-expecting more, but there was nothing else written. Instead, tucked inside the envelope, was a delicate silver locket. The chain was thin and dainty, and the pendant itself was engraved with tiny flowers along its edges. I recognized it instantly—it had been my grandmother’s favorite piece of jewelry. She used to wear it every Sunday to church, back when Sundays still meant something to our family.
Tears blurred my vision as I held it in my palm. How many times had I seen her open it to show me the pictures inside? One side held a faded photo of her and Leandra when they were younger; the other, a snapshot of her holding me as a baby. My chest tightened. This wasn’t just a keepsake—it was a bridge. A connection to the parts of my life I thought I’d lost forever.
For days after finding the letter, I couldn’t stop thinking about Leandra. About the fights we’d had, the years we’d wasted. About how much easier it would’ve been to forgive her while she was still alive. But guilt isn’t productive, and dwelling on “what ifs” doesn’t bring anyone back. What matters is what happens next.
So I decided to reach out—to Ava, to my mom, to everyone who’d cut ties with me after I skipped the funeral. I started small, sending texts that said things like, “I miss you,” and “Can we talk?” At first, no one responded. But then, slowly, they began to reply. Tentatively at first, but eventually with warmth.
When I finally met up with Ava for coffee, she hugged me so tight I thought my ribs might crack. “We’ve missed you too,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “You have no idea.”
We spent hours catching up, laughing and crying in equal measure. She told me stories about Leandra during her final days—how strong she’d been, how often she’d asked about me. Hearing those details broke my heart all over again, but it also healed something deep inside. Leandra hadn’t hated me. She’d loved me, in her own complicated way.
Over the next few weeks, I worked to rebuild the relationships I’d let crumble. It wasn’t easy—there were apologies to make, bridges to mend—but every step forward felt lighter than the last. By the time Christmas rolled around, I found myself surrounded by family for the first time in years. It wasn’t perfect—we’re all still figuring things out—but it was real. And that was enough.
As I sat at the dinner table, wearing the locket around my neck, I realized something important: forgiveness isn’t about forgetting. It’s about choosing to move forward anyway. It’s about recognizing that people are flawed, messy, and human—and that love, even when it falters, is worth fighting for.
Leandra taught me that, in her own roundabout way. Through her letter, through the locket, through the memories we shared, she reminded me that family isn’t just something you’re born into. It’s something you choose, over and over again.
If you’re reading this story and feeling weighed down by old wounds or unresolved conflicts, I urge you to take a step toward healing. Whether it’s reaching out to someone you’ve drifted apart from or simply giving yourself permission to let go of anger, remember this: Life is too short to hold onto resentment. Love fiercely, forgive freely, and cherish the connections that matter most.
Thank you for reading. If this story resonated with you, please share it with others. Let’s spread a little more kindness and understanding in the world—one heartfelt moment at a time.
