Letters people shared.

October 14th, around 2 a.m. You said "I'm not going anywhere" and you didn't. I don't remember the doctor. I remember you.

My daughter does not speak your language. I tried. I failed. She knows the songs my mother sang to me. That has to be enough. It is not enough. It will have to be.

I told you I loved you every Sunday on the phone for thirty-one years. You said "okay" and "drive safe" and "don't forget to eat." I know that was your version. I learned it. I learned to translate "okay" into the thing I needed to hear. I am still translating. It is exhausting and I do not regret a single …

You held the parts of me I couldn't carry. Thank you for not flinching.

I left in 1991 and I did not come back. I am sober now. I have been sober for nine years. The town did not give me the drinking. The town was just where the drinking happened. I want to be clear about that. I do not blame you. I just am not coming back. My wife is from the …

We have never met. He tells me you were a good person. I believe him. I want you to know I am kind to your son. I do not try to be his mother. I try to be a steady adult in his house. I think that is what you would have wanted. I am sorry the cancer was so …

You are twenty-three this year. You wrote to me in March. I have read your letter forty times. I am writing back slowly because I need to get it right. Please give me one more week.

You put the kids in the car. You drove to your sister's. You did not look back. You thought you would. You did not. I am writing to tell you, from the future, that not looking back was the right thing. Your kids are okay. You are okay. The man you left is not okay. That is not your job …

You took the cat. I have never asked for him back. The new cat is named Henry. He sleeps on my left side, where you used to sleep. He does not snore. That is the only way he is better than you.

I was carrying a duffel bag and a stuffed elephant and crying. You did not ask. You held the door. You pressed the seven for me before I asked. You got off at five. I do not know your name. My son is now fourteen and healthy. I told him about you when he was old enough. He asked what …

I don't know if my son will have you. I hope so. I am writing this in case. Your grandfather, who you will never meet, made the best biscuits in the county. I will teach your parent the recipe. Demand it of them.

I am not angry anymore. I am tired. There is a difference and you never learned it. I hope you are well. I will not be the one who calls first.

I do not remember your name. I remember you were kind to me on a night I did not know how to be kind to myself. I went home with you because I was lonely and you let me leave at 6 a.m. without making me feel small. If you are alive, somewhere, I hope someone is being that kind …

We were inseparable for four years. We have not spoken in eleven. I saw on LinkedIn that you are getting divorced. I almost wrote. I did not write. I do not know what I would have said. I am sorry. I am writing it here because that is the only place I have for it.

We talked for four hours on Sunday. I had not laughed that hard in a year. You told me about the man you are seeing who is too short. I told you about the fight I had with Ramón. We are middle-aged women talking on a phone like teenagers. Mamá would have loved that we are still this close. I …

We share grandparents. We share trauma. We share the recipe for the rice. The cousin part is from God. The best friend part is on purpose. I am writing this so you have it on a Wednesday: the on-purpose part is the part I am most proud of in my whole life.

I do not miss you. I miss the apartment on Walnut Street, and the dog, and the Sunday mornings, and the way you laughed at the bad parts of movies. I do not miss you. The other things were not you. They were the room we made together. I am at peace with the room. I am still done with …

Brooklyn, fourth floor, no elevator. You were where my son took his first steps. You were where my marriage ended. You were where I learned to make my mother's curry from the phone. I drove past you in October. There are different curtains now. Somebody else is having their life in there. Good for them.

I don't know what I did. I have read our last messages forty times. If you ever want to tell me, the line is open. If you don't, that's okay too. I will think of you with affection. I already do.

You weren't required to love me. You did it anyway. You taught me to drive in the Kroger parking lot. You learned to braid hair off a YouTube video. I called you sir until I was nineteen and I'm sorry it took me that long.