**The Shadow of the Past on Our Doorstep**
*A man’s letter. He wishes he could change everything, but time won’t turn back…*
My love, Evelyn, and I met in our school days in a quiet town outside Manchester. After graduation, we agreed never to part and enrolled together in a college in Birmingham, determined to stay side by side. We dreamed of building a life together, though our parents knew nothing of our plans.
Evelyn’s parents rented her a small flat, while mine arranged for me to stay in university halls. Of course, I never lived there—I moved in with Evelyn the moment we arrived. But whenever her parents visited, I’d vanish like a ghost, hiding every trace of my existence as if I were a spy in my own home.
Two years later, Evelyn fell pregnant. We were terrified. Tell our parents? Impossible—how could we confess a secret life they’d never allowed? Fear paralysed us. Termination wasn’t an option either; we couldn’t bring ourselves to consider it. Evelyn gave birth to a girl, but crushed by circumstance, we left her at the hospital.
After our final exams, we married. We never forgot our daughter. The moment we graduated and found our footing, we began searching for her, desperate to bring her home. But it was too late. Our little girl had already been adopted. All records of her new family were sealed. The trail ended, leaving only emptiness in our hearts.
We tried to move on. Soon after, our son, Oliver, was born. But the memory of our daughter remained, an open wound we carried in silence. We told no one—not family, not friends. The pain was ours alone, buried deep.
Then, one evening after a gruelling day at work, we were resting at home when the doorbell rang. Evelyn went to answer it—and froze. On the doorstep stood a young woman. She stared at Evelyn, unblinking, and whispered,
*”Evelyn Hartwood?”*
*”Yes…”* My wife’s voice trembled.
*”I’m from your past. May I come in?”*
Pale as linen, Evelyn led her to the kitchen and put the kettle on. I stayed with Oliver, but my heart pounded. When I heard Evelyn’s quiet sobs, I rushed in. There, at the table with tears streaming down her face, sat our daughter. She explained she’d found adoption papers while searching through records and had resolved to find us—her real parents.
We were stunned, as if time had stopped. Haltingly, we explained how fear and youth had driven our decision. To our amazement, she understood. Forgiveness didn’t come easily, but she offered it. Now, we’ve built a fragile warmth between us, though the road here was far from smooth.
Yet not everything is mended. Oliver, our son, learned the truth and can’t accept it. He looks at us with accusation, condemning us for abandoning his sister. His anger cuts deep, reopening the guilt we already carry. He refuses to believe we truly regret it, that we mourn that choice every day.
How do we reach him? How do we make him see our pain matches his disappointment? We long to mend our family, but for now, all we face is the wall of his judgment.
