When Amanda opened the package, she expected a product she had ordered — not a box of old toys, neatly wrapped and labeled: “For Ava, age 4” and “For Jonah, age 6.”
Confused, she called her husband, Aaron. He froze when he saw the handwriting. “It’s from Claire,” he whispered — his ex-fiancée, who had vanished eight years ago without a word.
Inside the box was a letter.
“Dear Aaron,
I know I’m the last person you ever wanted to hear from. I disappeared without explanation, and I owe you more than this letter can ever repay. What you didn’t know — what I couldn’t bring myself to tell you — was that I was pregnant.
I lost the baby. And I lost myself. I didn’t know how to face you, or the life we were building.
I kept the toys I bought for her. Held onto them through the hardest years, even as I moved across the country and tried to forget. But I never really could.
A few weeks ago, I was diagnosed with cancer. The kind they say doesn’t leave much time.
I looked you up. I saw your beautiful family. It hurt. But it also healed something in me.
These toys… I can’t take them with me. But I want your children to have them — not because they’re theirs, but because they were once meant for the child we never got to meet.”
Amanda didn’t say a word. She just took Aaron’s hand, and together they knelt beside the toys, both grieving what