I used to think the hardest part of my life was leaving everything I knew at eighteen and starting over in a place where I didn’t know a single person. Turns out, I was completely wrong about that. The hardest part was realizing, more than a decade later, that a single piece of folded paper I’d been too terrified to read might hold the answer to why I’d never been able to truly move forward with my life.
Fourteen years is an incredibly long time to carry something without understanding how much weight it actually holds. Without realizing that it’s been pressing down on you every single day, influencing every choice you make, coloring every relationship you attempt, keeping you anchored to a past you can’t quite let go of.
I didn’t understand any of this until last week.
I was standing in my attic on an unusually warm Saturday afternoon, surrounded by cardboard boxes I hadn’t opened since my mid-twenties. Dust particles danced in the shaft of golden sunlight streaming through the small octagonal window. The air smelled like old paper and forgotten memories. Inside those boxes were relics from another lifetime—medical textbooks with cracked spines and highlighted passages I no longer remembered, a battered suitcase with a broken wheel, random memorabilia from college that I’d kept for reasons that no longer made any sense to me.
And then, pushed into the far corner beneath a stack of winter sweaters I’d forgotten I owned, I found it. A navy blue jacket I hadn’t worn since I was eighteen years old.
I’m thirty-two now. A physician at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston. A man who supposedly built exactly the life he’d meticulously planned for himself, who checked every box on his carefully constructed roadmap, who did everything society considers “right.”
Everything except the one thing that actually mattered.
When I Thought I Understood What Sacrifice Meant
Back then, standing in my childhood bedroom with college acceptance letters spread across my desk like a hand of cards, I genuinely thought I understood what sacrifice meant. I thought I knew the price you had to pay to pursue your dreams. I thought I understood what it cost to walk away from something precious in pursuit of something important.
I was catastrophically, painfully wrong.
High school feels almost surreal now when I allow myself to think about it—like a place I only visited in someone else’s memories, like a movie I watched rather than a life I actually lived. I grew up in Millbrook, a small town in upstate New York where everybody knew everybody else’s business, where Friday night football games were the social event of the week, where the local diner served as the unofficial town hall, and where the future seemed like it would naturally be a continuation of the comfortable present.
Bella Martinez was the absolute center of that world for me.
We met when we were thirteen years old, both of us awkward and unfinished, still figuring out who we were supposed to become and how we fit into the world. She was the girl who sat two rows over in eighth-grade English, who always had paint under her fingernails from art class, whose laugh was contagious enough to make everyone around her smile too. Dark curly hair that was perpetually escaping whatever ponytail or braid she’d attempted that morning. Brown eyes that seemed to see straight through whatever front I was attempting to maintain.
We started officially dating at fourteen, but honestly, we were best friends first and foremost. She knew me in ways no one else ever has—she could tell when I was lying about being okay, when I was scared but pretending to be brave, when I was faking confidence I absolutely didn’t possess, when I needed someone to just sit with me in silence instead of trying to fix things with words.
We planned our futures the way teenagers do—vaguely, optimistically, with absolutely no understanding of how fragile and temporary those plans really were. We talked about going to the same college, maybe somewhere in New York City. About getting an apartment together after graduation. About building a life that included both of us, always.
Then, in the span of one dinner conversation, everything changed.
The Opportunity That Felt Like a Death Sentence
My parents sat me down at our kitchen table on a humid Tuesday evening in early June, just three weeks after graduation. I can still see every detail of that moment—my mother’s hands folded carefully on the worn wooden table, the way she wouldn’t quite meet my eyes at first, how she kept straightening the salt and pepper shakers that didn’t need straightening. My father cleared his throat three times before speaking, the telltale sign that he had something difficult to say.
They were moving to Germany. My father, a software engineer, had accepted a prestigious position with a tech company in Munich. It was the opportunity of a lifetime for his career—better pay, better prospects, the kind of professional advancement you couldn’t find in a small town in upstate New York.
And I had been accepted into a highly competitive medical program at Ludwig Maximilian University. A real program, the kind of opportunity that medical students across the world would sacrifice nearly anything for. The kind that could set the trajectory of my entire career.
“You can study medicine like you’ve always wanted,” my father said, his voice careful and measured, like he was trying to convince himself as much as me. “This is your dream, Christopher. This is what you’ve worked toward your entire life.”
And he was absolutely, undeniably right. It was my dream. I’d talked about becoming a doctor since I was ten years old, since the day I watched an emergency room surgeon save my grandfather’s life after a massive heart attack and realized that knowledge and skill could literally pull someone back from the edge of death, could change the entire trajectory of someone’s existence with the right intervention at the right moment.
But dreams never come with warning labels. Nobody tells you about the collateral damage. Nobody mentions what you might have to sacrifice to achieve them.
Nobody prepares you for the possibility that achieving one dream might mean destroying another.
Trying to Be Brave When Your Heart Is Breaking
Bella and I tried so hard to be brave about it. We sat in my beat-up Honda Civic outside her house—the same car where we’d had our first kiss, where we’d spent countless hours just talking about everything and nothing—and we talked about long-distance relationships like they were actually viable. Like two eighteen-year-olds with no money and an entire ocean between them could somehow make it work through sheer force of will.
We both knew better. We just weren’t ready to say it out loud yet.
The weeks between graduation and my departure felt simultaneously endless and far too short. Every moment we spent together carried this unbearable weight, this acute awareness that we were counting down to something irreversible and final.
Prom happened right in the middle of all of it, and it felt less like a celebration than a beautiful, elaborate funeral for the future we’d imagined.
We danced to every slow song. We took pictures with our friends, all of us dressed up and pretending everything was normal. We laughed at jokes that weren’t actually funny. Every moment felt precious and painful in equal measure.
I held Bella closer than necessary during the last dance, my face buried in her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her coconut shampoo and trying desperately to memorize exactly how this moment felt—the weight of her head on my shoulder, the way her hand fit perfectly in mine, the sound of her breathing.
We both knew that prom night was probably the last time we’d see each other for a very long time. Maybe forever.
At the end of the night, standing in the high school parking lot while glitter from the decorations littered the asphalt and deflated balloons tumbled across the pavement in the warm June breeze, Bella reached into her small beaded clutch purse and pulled out a folded piece of notebook paper.
Her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped it.
“Read this when you get home tonight,” she said, her voice trembling so severely I could barely understand the words. “Promise me you’ll read it, Chris. Promise.”
My own voice wasn’t much steadier when I answered. “I promise. I will.”
I slipped that note into the inside pocket of my rented navy blue jacket like it was something incredibly fragile and precious, like it might shatter into a thousand pieces if I handled it wrong. Like opening it too soon would break something that couldn’t be fixed.
But I didn’t read it that night.
I couldn’t.
The Note I Carried But Couldn’t Open
The truth is, it hurt too much to even think about reading it. Every time I touched that jacket, felt the slight crinkle of paper in the pocket, my chest would tighten and my eyes would burn with tears I refused to let fall. I told myself I’d read it later, when it wouldn’t feel like voluntarily ripping my own heart out with my bare hands.
Later turned into tomorrow. Tomorrow turned into next week. Next week turned into next month. Next month turned into next year.
And somehow, impossibly, next year turned into fourteen years.
Life didn’t pause or slow down to accommodate my grief or my fear or my complete inability to face what that note might say. Life just kept moving forward relentlessly, pulling me along whether I was emotionally ready or not.
I moved to Munich with my parents. I started medical school, which immediately became the most overwhelming experience of my life. The language barrier alone nearly destroyed me those first few months—trying to learn complex medical terminology in German while also trying to keep up with the actual coursework felt impossible. The academic pressure was absolutely relentless. Long nights studying until my eyes burned and I could barely focus. Even longer days of clinical rotations where I was constantly terrified of making a mistake that could hurt someone.
The constant, gnawing doubt about whether I was actually good enough to be there, whether I deserved this opportunity, whether I’d made a terrible mistake leaving everything I knew behind.
I told myself I didn’t have time to think about the past, that looking backward would only make it harder to move forward. That dwelling on what I’d left behind would sabotage my ability to succeed where I was. That the only way to survive was to focus exclusively on the future.
I built a new life one painful, difficult brick at a time. I learned German. I made friends with other international students who understood the unique challenge of studying medicine in a second language. I excelled in my classes through sheer determination and countless sleepless nights. I completed my residency. I became a doctor, exactly as I’d always dreamed.
But somewhere along the way, without my even noticing it happening, something fundamental and essential went missing from my life.
The Relationships That Always Felt Incomplete
Of course I dated during those years. I tried. I made genuine efforts to connect with people, to build something meaningful. I met wonderful women—intelligent, accomplished, kind, beautiful in ways that should have been more than enough to make me happy.
Sarah was a medical student I met during my residency, someone who shared my passion for emergency medicine and understood the insane demands of the profession. We dated for nearly two years.
Elena was an artist I met at a gallery opening, someone who made me laugh on my worst days and saw the world in ways that fascinated me. We were together for eighteen months.
Katie was an elementary school teacher with the kindest heart of anyone I’d ever met, someone who would have made an incredible partner for the right person. We dated for a year.
But with all of them, something crucial was always missing. There was always this distance I couldn’t explain or bridge, this sense that part of me wasn’t fully present or available. Like my heart had learned how to stay partially closed and had forgotten how to open all the way again. Like some essential piece of me was permanently reserved for something—or someone—I’d left behind.
I blamed my demanding schedule. The exhaustion that comes with practicing emergency medicine. The emotional toll of the job. The stress of building a career in a competitive field.
It was easier than admitting the real truth—that I’d left part of myself in a high school parking lot in upstate New York thirteen years ago, and I had absolutely no idea how to get it back.
When the Past Refuses to Stay Buried
Years passed in that strange way they do when you’re busy but not particularly fulfilled. Birthdays came and went, each one feeling simultaneously significant and meaningless. My parents aged gracefully in their adopted country. My career stabilized and then flourished beyond what I’d imagined. I moved from Munich to Boston to take a position at Mass General, bought a beautiful brownstone in Beacon Hill that finally felt permanent and adult.
And through all of it, periodically and without any warning, Bella would cross my mind.
Not painfully, exactly. Not in a way that disrupted my daily life. Just… there. Present. Like a song you haven’t heard in years but still remember every single word and note of. Like a language you learned as a child and never quite forgot, even when you stopped speaking it regularly.
I’d wonder what she was doing. Whether she’d left our hometown. Whether she’d gotten married, had kids, built the life she’d imagined. Whether she ever thought about me the way I sometimes thought about her—with a mixture of fondness and regret and curiosity about the road not taken.
Last Saturday, I finally decided to tackle a project I’d been avoiding for months: cleaning out my attic. It was one of those adult responsibilities I’d been putting off because I knew on some subconscious level that it would unearth things I’d rather keep buried.
The attic was exactly as cluttered and dusty as I’d feared. My hands turned gray within minutes from handling boxes that hadn’t been opened in years. I sorted through things I’d kept for reasons that no longer made any sense—high school track trophies I didn’t remember earning, notebooks from college classes I’d long forgotten taking, clothes that smelled faintly of mothballs and the passage of time.
That’s when I found the jacket, pushed into a corner and buried under winter clothes I rarely wore.
The same navy blue jacket I’d rented for senior prom fourteen years ago. I almost laughed at how young and awkward I must have looked wearing it. Almost tossed it directly into the donation pile and moved on with my sorting.
Then my fingers brushed against something in the inside pocket.
Paper. Still there after all these years.
Folded. Soft and worn at the edges from age.
My heart dropped so suddenly and completely that I actually felt physically dizzy. I sat down hard on an old trunk, the jacket clutched in my trembling hands, staring at that pocket like it contained something dangerous and explosive.
The note was still there. Exactly where I’d put it fourteen years, three months, and twelve days ago.
What Bella Had Written All Those Years Ago
For what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few minutes, I just sat there in that dusty attic holding the jacket, paralyzed by two equal and opposite fears. I was terrified that opening that note would fundamentally change something I wasn’t ready to face. And I was equally terrified that it wouldn’t change anything at all—that fourteen years had made it irrelevant, meaningless, just a relic from a past that no longer mattered.
When I finally unfolded it with hands that shook worse than they had the night she’d given it to me, my vision blurred immediately with tears.
“Chris,
If you’re reading this, it means you finally let yourself feel what we were both too afraid to say out loud that night. I don’t know where you’ll be when you open this, or how much time will have passed, or who you’ll be with when you do. But I need you to know something, and I need you to know it in my own words, written down where you can read them as many times as you need to.
I never stopped loving you. I know I never will.
I know you’re leaving for Germany tomorrow. I know medical school is your dream, and I would never, ever ask you to give that up for me. I love you too much to be the reason you don’t become who you’re meant to be. But I need you to hear this at least once in your life, even if it ends up being too late by the time you do.
If you ever come back to Millbrook. If you ever wonder whether what we had mattered as much to me as it did to you—it did. It mattered more than I have words to explain. It always has. It always will.
I’ll be here. Until life takes me somewhere else.
I love you. I always will.
Bella”
I read it three times, tears streaming down my face unchecked. Once sitting on that trunk in the dusty attic, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Once in my car after I’d grabbed my wallet and keys in a daze. And once in the long-term parking lot at Logan Airport, after I’d driven there on pure autopilot and bought a ticket on the first flight to Albany.
The words had soaked into me like water into sand, filling empty spaces I didn’t even know existed, answering questions I’d stopped asking years ago because the answers seemed impossibly out of reach.
Fourteen years of emotional distance suddenly made perfect, terrible sense. The hollow feeling that had followed me through every relationship. The restlessness that never quite went away no matter how successful I became. The persistent sense that something crucial remained unfinished, waiting patiently for me to be ready to face it.
The Spontaneous Trip That Changed Everything
I didn’t pack a bag. I barely remembered to grab my phone charger. I just drove straight to the airport in the clothes I’d been wearing to clean my attic, bought a ticket to Albany—the closest airport to Millbrook—and sat in the departure gate in a complete daze, that note clutched in my hand.
The flight felt endless despite being only an hour and twenty minutes. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t read. Couldn’t focus on anything except the loop of memories playing in my head like a film I couldn’t pause.
Bella laughing on the back of my bicycle as we rode through town. Bella falling asleep on my shoulder during bad movies at the old theater on Main Street that showed second-run films. Bella crying quietly in my car the night I told her my parents were moving to Germany and I was going with them, the way she’d tried so hard to be supportive even though her heart was breaking.
I had absolutely no idea if she was still in Millbrook. No clue whether “until life takes me somewhere else” had happened five years ago or ten years ago. She could be married with three kids. She could have moved to California or France or literally anywhere else in the world. She could have completely forgotten about me and moved on with her life the way I should have done but somehow never quite managed.
The not-knowing was almost worse than any answer could possibly be.
When the plane finally touched down in Albany, my hands were sweating and my heart was racing like I’d just run a marathon. I rented a car—a basic sedan that smelled like industrial air freshener—and drove the forty-five minutes to Millbrook on roads I still remembered despite not having driven them in over a decade.
The town looked simultaneously exactly the same and completely different. Smaller than I remembered, somehow. The buildings looked older, more worn. But the basic geography was unchanged—Main Street with its collection of small shops, the diner where Bella and I used to get milkshakes after school, the park where we’d spent countless summer afternoons.
I found myself pulling into the parking lot of Millbrook High School without consciously deciding to go there. The building looked smaller now, less imposing than it had seemed when I was a student. I sat in the rental car for ten minutes, gripping the steering wheel, trying to figure out what exactly I was doing and what I hoped to accomplish.
I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have a speech prepared. I just knew with absolute certainty that I needed to see Bella, even if it turned out to be the most awkward and painful conversation of my entire life.
Standing at the Door to My Past
I remembered exactly where Bella’s parents lived—a white Cape Cod-style house with blue shutters on Maple Street, just three blocks from the high school. I’d spent so many hours in that house during our relationship that I could probably still navigate it in the dark.
The house looked exactly the same. The shutters were still blue, though maybe a slightly different shade. The mailbox at the end of the driveway was still slightly crooked—I remembered her father saying he was going to fix it “next weekend” for approximately three years straight and never getting around to it.
I almost turned around and left. Fourteen years is an impossibly, absurdly long time to show up unannounced at someone’s door. What was I even going to say? “Hey, sorry I disappeared for over a decade, but I finally read your note and wanted to see if you happened to still be available”?
But I’d come this far. And that note was burning a hole in my jacket pocket.
I took a deep breath, walked up the familiar path to the front door, and knocked before I could talk myself out of it.
A woman answered—older than I remembered, with gray streaking through her dark hair, but I recognized her immediately. Bella’s mother, Mrs. Martinez. She had Bella’s eyes.
“Yes?” she asked, polite but cautious, clearly not recognizing me after all these years.
My voice came out rougher and more uncertain than I’d intended. “Hi, Mrs. Martinez. I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Chris Morrison. I’m looking for Bella. Does she… is she still…”
I couldn’t quite figure out how to finish that sentence.
Her expression shifted dramatically—surprise melting into something more complex. Recognition. Confusion. Maybe a hint of disapproval, though I might have been imagining that.
“Christopher,” she said slowly. “It’s been a very long time.”
“Yes, ma’am. I know. I’m sorry to show up like this without calling first. I just… I need to see Bella. If she’s here. If she’s willing to see me.”
Mrs. Martinez stared at me for what felt like a very long time, and I could see her trying to decide what to do with this unexpected situation.
Finally, she stepped aside. “She’s here. Come in.”
My heart was pounding so violently I thought I might actually pass out.
The Moment I’d Been Avoiding for Fourteen Years
Bella walked into the hallway from what I remembered as the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. She looked up, and for several seconds that stretched into what felt like hours, neither of us moved or spoke or even seemed to breathe.
Time did something strange and elastic in that moment.
She had changed, obviously—she was thirty-two now, not eighteen. Her hair was shorter, falling to her shoulders instead of halfway down her back the way it had in high school. She was wearing jeans and a paint-stained sweater that suggested she’d been working on something artistic. There were fine lines near her eyes that hadn’t been there before, evidence of years of smiling and living and experiencing things I knew nothing about.
But it was unmistakably, fundamentally her. The same Bella I’d fallen in love with at thirteen, just refined and matured and even more beautiful for the evidence of time and experience.
“Chris?” she said quietly, almost like a question, like she wasn’t entirely sure I was real. “Is that really you?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, because it was the only thing that made any sense, the only thing that felt remotely adequate. “I should have come back years ago. I should have come back right away. I’m so sorry.”
She set the dish towel down slowly on a small table in the hallway, her eyes never leaving my face, like she was afraid I might disappear if she looked away.
“You read it,” she said.
It wasn’t a question. She knew.
I nodded, not trusting my voice to work properly.
Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t let them fall. Not yet. She crossed the space between us slowly, carefully, like she was approaching something wild that might bolt at any sudden movement.
“You didn’t read it back then,” she said softly. It wasn’t an accusation—just a statement of fact, something she’d figured out long ago.
“I couldn’t,” I said, my voice cracking. “I thought if I opened it, I wouldn’t be able to get on that plane. And I was terrified that if I stayed, I’d end up resenting you for being the reason I gave up my dream. Or resenting myself for not having the courage to pursue it.”
She swallowed hard, and I watched a tear finally escape down her cheek. “I wondered for years if you ever opened it. If you ever would. Or if you’d just carried it around without ever knowing what it said.”
“I carried it everywhere,” I admitted. “It moved to Germany with me. Then to Boston. I’ve had it for fourteen years. I just never let myself know what it said until last week.”
The Conversation We Should Have Had Fourteen Years Ago
Her mother had quietly disappeared at some point, giving us privacy. Bella led me to the kitchen, and we sat at the same table where we used to do homework together in high school, our knees almost touching underneath it.
She made coffee automatically, out of habit, even though neither of us ended up drinking it. We just needed something to do with our hands.
“I stayed,” she said after a long silence. “I went to SUNY Albany for a teaching degree. Taught middle school art for about five years. Then I opened a small art studio and gallery downtown about three years ago.”
I smiled despite the overwhelming emotions churning in my chest. “You always said you’d do that. I remember you sketching floor plans for your dream studio in the margins of your notebooks during history class.”
She looked at me then, really looked. “And you became a doctor. You actually did it.”
“I did,” I said. “I built exactly the life I told everyone I would. Checked every single box on the list. Followed the plan perfectly. I just never managed to figure out how to fill it with anything that actually mattered.”
There was a long, weighted silence between us.
“I waited,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not forever. I didn’t put my entire life on hold or anything like that. But longer than I probably should have. Long enough that it surprised me. Every single time someone asked me why I never moved away from Millbrook, why I stayed in this small town when I had opportunities elsewhere, I thought about that note. About whether you’d ever read it.”
Guilt settled in my chest like a stone, heavy and cold. “I’m so incredibly sorry I didn’t come back sooner.”
“I’m not,” she said, which surprised me. “If you had come back after a year, or even five years, you wouldn’t be who you are now. And I wouldn’t be who I am. We both needed those years to grow up, to become complete people on our own instead of just halves of a couple who never got the chance to figure out who they were separately.”
I studied her carefully. “Are you married?”
She shook her head slowly. “No. I loved people. Had relationships. Some of them were good, even. But I never stopped loving you, Chris. And that made it impossible to love anyone else completely. There was always this… reservation. This part of me that wasn’t fully available.”
Something broke open in my chest—relief and guilt and grief and hope all tangled together in a way I couldn’t begin to untangle.
What Happened After I Finally Came Home
We talked for hours. About everything we’d missed in each other’s lives. About the people we’d become. About our careers and our families and our disappointments and our successes. About the quiet, constant grief of letting go of someone without ever getting any kind of closure or resolution.
The house grew dark around us and neither of us bothered to turn on more lights. We just sat there in the gathering darkness, finally saying all the things we should have said fourteen years ago.
When I finally stood to leave—I’d gotten a room at the small bed and breakfast on the edge of town—she walked me to the door.
“So what happens now?” she asked, her voice small and uncertain.
I took a deep breath. “I honestly don’t know. I don’t want to rush anything or push you into something you’re not ready for. I just know I didn’t drop everything and fly across the country to walk away from you again. I can’t do that. I won’t.”
She smiled then, small and real and heartbreakingly familiar. “Then don’t.”
I stayed in Millbrook for a week. Then two. I called my department head and arranged for extended personal leave. I reconnected with old friends who still lived in town. I visited places I thought I’d outgrown but discovered I still loved. I sat in Bella’s studio for hours, watching her paint while afternoon sunlight slanted through the tall windows, and it felt like coming home in a way nowhere else ever had.
When I finally flew back to Boston, it wasn’t goodbye. It was just a necessary pause while we figured out the logistics.
We talked on the phone every single day, sometimes for hours. We visited back and forth every few weeks. We made plans carefully this time, with complete honesty instead of teenage fear, with patience instead of panic.
Six months later, Bella moved to Boston. She found a beautiful studio space in Cambridge and fell in love with the city’s art scene in ways I’d hoped she would.
We’ve been living together now for eight months. Building something that feels both completely new and comfortably familiar, like putting on a favorite sweater you thought you’d lost years ago.
The Life We’re Finally Building Together
Sometimes, lying awake at three in the morning, I think about those fourteen years. About all the time we lost. All the moments we missed. All the roads we walked separately that we could have traveled together.
The birthdays and holidays and ordinary Tuesday evenings. The successes we couldn’t share with each other in real time. The disappointments we faced alone instead of together. The inside jokes we never got to develop. The shared history we never built.
But then Bella reminds me, usually when I get too caught up in regret, that we needed those years apart.
“We weren’t ready then,” she told me just last week, curled up against me on our couch. “We were kids. We would have broken each other trying to hold on when we both needed space to grow and figure out who we were as individuals. You needed to become a doctor without resenting me for being the reason you didn’t. I needed to build my own life and career without defining myself entirely through my relationship with you.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe everything happened exactly the way it needed to. Maybe those fourteen years of separation were necessary for us to become people capable of building something lasting.
But I still wish I’d read that note sooner.
I still wish I’d been braver at eighteen instead of at thirty-two.
I still think about all the years we could have had together, and even though I’m grateful for where we are now, I’ll always carry a small ache for the time we lost.
But we’re together now. Finally. And we’re building something real.
Fourteen years ago, on the night of our senior prom, Bella Martinez handed me a folded piece of notebook paper and asked me to read it when I got home.
It took me fourteen years, one dusty attic cleaning session, and one spontaneous cross-country flight to finally do what she’d asked.
But that note brought me back to exactly where I belonged.
And now, for the first time in fourteen years, I’m actually home.
Have you ever avoided something important because you were too afraid of what it might mean? Have you ever looked back and wished you’d been braver sooner, that you’d read the letter or made the call or taken the risk when you had the chance? We’d love to hear your stories about second chances, roads not taken, and finding your way back to what matters. Share your thoughts with us on Facebook—your story might be exactly what someone else needs to hear today. If this story touched your heart or reminded you of your own regrets or reunions or moments of courage, please share it with friends and family who might need to read it. Sometimes the conversations we need most start with a story that makes us remember what we’ve left unfinished in our own lives.