Grief isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always show in tears or outbursts—it can live quietly in silence, in small rituals, or in words never shared. When my 16-year-old son passed, my husband Sam never cried.
His silence felt cold, and over time, it drove a wedge between us. We eventually divorced, and I assumed he had moved on.
Twelve years later, after Sam passed away, his second wife visited me. She handed me a small, worn wooden box. Inside were dozens of sealed letters—each one addressed to our son. “Every year on his birthday,” she said, “Sam wrote to him. Always on the same hill, always alone. This was how he grieved.”
I sat in silence, reading each letter. They held memories, regrets, and love—things I never knew he carried. All those years I believed he was untouched by our loss, when in truth, he was mourning deeply—just in his own quiet way.