Mariana and I had been married for seven years. It was a time filled with both laughter and tears.

When we fell in love, we believed our love would last forever, but life doesn’t always follow the path you imagine.

Work absorbed me, the distance between us grew, and after several failed attempts at reconciliation, we decided to let go of each other’s hands.

On the day of the divorce, Mariana only said in a low voice:

“Don’t feel guilty, maybe we don’t share the same rhythm anymore.”

I remained silent, but then I left. There were no arguments, no reproaches, just a quiet ending. I always thought that, in time, we would both have a new life and that, who knows, one day we might meet again and smile like two old friends.

But things didn’t turn out as I imagined.

A year after the divorce, work took me back to the city where Doña Carmen, my former mother-in-law, lived.

Remembering how much she had loved me like a son, I decided to visit her.

Deep down, I even imagined that maybe Mariana would be there too, and that maybe we could have a quiet conversation after so much time.

I stood in front of the door, feeling strangely nervous.

The door opened, and Doña Carmen looked at me with a mixture of surprise and deep sadness in her eyes. In a trembling voice, she said,

“Son… you’re back.”

I went in. The house was still the same, but the atmosphere was unusually quiet.

In the living room, on the table, there was a photo of Mariana, framed with a black ribbon. I froze, my heart paralyzed.

“Mom… is this…?” I stammered.

Doña Carmen sighed, her voice breaking:

“Mariana left us almost half a year ago.”

I gasped. I felt the ground sink beneath my feet. I didn’t want to believe it, but Doña Carmen’s tear-filled eyes said it all.

I slumped into the chair, my mind blank.

Why hadn’t anyone told me? Why had I found out so late?

As if sensing my torment, Doña Carmen placed an envelope in my hands:

“She asked me to keep it. She said if you ever returned, you would read it.”

With trembling hands, I opened it.

Mariana’s handwriting appeared before my eyes, each stroke like a da:g:ger in my chest.

“My love, if you’re reading this letter, perhaps I’m no longer here. Forgive me for not telling you about my illness. I didn’t want to be a burden, I didn’t want you to look at me with pity or for your life to be tied to me. I only wanted you to move forward, to fulfill your dreams… and if you can, to forgive me for leaving you in silence. I never stopped loving you; I’m only sorry that our fate was so short.”

I clutched the letter to my chest as the tears flowed without stopping. The world shattered into a thousand pieces, leaving me alone with unbearable pain.

Mariana had silently left, taking all that unfinished love with her. And I—who shared seven years of her life—didn’t even know it.

That night I lit incense in front of her portrait. With a broken heart, I murmured:

“I’ve returned… but too late. If there is another life, I promise to be by your side and walk with you all the path we couldn’t finish in this one.”

The secret Doña Carmen had kept taught me something: sometimes, what we lose isn’t just a person, but a part of our own heart. And there are things that, if we don’t appreciate them in time, we’ll never have the chance to recover.