We had not spoken to each other in more than seven years. Not since our divorce ended on a very difficult note. He had moved far away, and no one knew exactly where he had gone. Since we never had children or shared property, the silence between us simply grew over time. My friends always told me I was lucky to be rid of him, but I remembered a time when I truly believed he was the most wonderful person in the world.
“Yes, I know him,” I replied slowly. “Why?”
I simply blinked, completely stunned.
“I don’t mean to scare you or anything,” he quickly added. “I just found out a few months ago. My mom told me after he died.”
That one word—died—felt incredibly heavy, like a brick falling into my lap. I had so many questions running through my mind that I didn’t even know which one to ask first.
“He… he passed away?” I finally asked.
“Yeah. In February.”
It was already June.
A Story Unfolds: Painting and Forgiveness
It turned out that Felix had moved down to San Luis Obispo, where he started painting and lived a calm, quiet life. Ruben’s mother—Elira—had a short relationship with him in the early 2000s. She never told Felix she was pregnant and raised Ruben on her own.
“He tried to reach out to her a few times, but I guess she was scared. Or stubborn. She only told me the truth after the funeral. Said he left a box for me. In it… was a letter. And pictures. And your name.”
“Can we meet?” he asked gently. “There’s something he wanted me to give you.”
We met at a small, quiet coffee shop the very next afternoon. Ruben arrived wearing jeans and a work shirt, with a little grease still visible under his fingernails. He looked so much like Felix that it brought a strange ache to my heart—he had the same thick eyebrows and the same quiet, calm stare.
He handed me an old, well-used envelope that was yellowed at the corners. My name was written on it in Felix’s familiar, elegant handwriting.
My hands were shaking as I opened it.
The letter was four pages long.
The first page was an apology. He apologized for how our time together had ended, for the emotional distance he created, and for not fighting harder to keep me. He wrote that he felt “broken back then”—afraid of failing, and afraid of not being good enough.
The second page was filled with memories. These were small, personal details that only someone who truly loved you would remember. He mentioned the way I used to hum quietly when I was folding laundry. He recalled the time I cried during a commercial for pet food and immediately tried to pretend I just had allergies.
The last page was for me again. He asked for my forgiveness, although he admitted he didn’t expect it. He said that if Ruben ever found me, he hoped I would give him a chance. “He’s a good kid,” Felix wrote. “Better than I ever was. I hope you see a part of me in him—but mostly, I hope you see him for who he is.”
When I finally looked up, my eyes were filled with tears. Ruben didn’t speak. He simply sat there quietly, giving me the time and space I needed.
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