You died a few weeks ago. A few weeks ago, the part of me that hoped one day I would be able to meet you died. A few weeks ago, another part of this family’s buried past came back to the surface.
I am convinced no one in this family would have ever told me about you if I hadn’t discovered you for myself. No one ever talked about you during the holidays. No one even whispered your name. To them, it was like you had already died.
But that doesn’t mean you weren’t still in the deepest corners of everyone’s mind. After all, you can’t love someone one day and forget about them the next.
From what I’ve heard, you lived a pretty fucked up life. You hurt this family to the point that they buried you a long time ago. You made a lot of mistakes, most of them unforgivable, but luckily for you, I was (and still am) a firm believer that even the most fucked up people deserve love. I wanted you to walk back into this family, demand that you belonged here. But the tricky thing about life is you can dream all you want, make up a million scenarios in your head on how things could work out, but sometimes things just aren’t meant to be.
As I hold old photos of you and wonder what could have been if you hadn’t walked away from this family, I’m not even mad. I’m sad that you never got to see who I grew up to be. Yes, I’m sad for me, but I’m more torn up about the fact that you didn’t get to be a part of this family. To me, that was the biggest mistake you made.
From what I’ve heard these past few weeks, you turned your life around. I’d like to think that you were happy. I’d like to think you thought about us, about the family you left behind so many years ago. I’d like to think you picked up the phone once or twice and dialed our number. There are a lot of things I’d like to think about you and even more questions that I know I’ll never have answers to, but for now, I just hope you’re in a better place.
Rest easy. I can’t wait to meet you one day.