The Day Laura Disappeared, Laura’s wedding sparkled—Christmas lights, barefoot dancing, laughter in the air. We stood by the lemonade table, sticky hands and full hearts.
“You’re really married now,” I said.
She smiled—then something flickered.
By morning, she was gone. No note, no phone, just her wedding dress folded neatly.
The police searched. They questioned Luke. Nothing. She’d vanished, taking the light from our family with her.
Ten years passed.
One rainy morning, I found a letter hidden in the attic. It was dated the day she disappeared. She was pregnant. Scared. Felt alone. She hadn’t told anyone—not even Luke.
“I couldn’t build a life on a lie,” she wrote. At the bottom, an address.
I went.
Down a quiet Wisconsin road, a girl drew chalk hearts on a porch. “Is your mom home?” I asked.
Laura stepped out—older, but still my sister.
We embraced. Ten years melted away.
Her daughter wasn’t Luke’s. Laura had left to live honestly, not in shame.
“I thought I could stay—but I couldn’t lie to him. Or to myself.”
She’d built a quiet life: a home, love, peace.
I returned home and told no one. Mama asked if I found her. I said no.
That night, I burned the letter. Not to forget—but to let go.
Laura was alive, living her truth. And somehow, that was enough.
