Rain always hit harder in our lot. The pavement gleamed like glass under bus headlights, and every night at 9:47, I’d spot her shoes and the familiar slow step off the bus.
Until Thursday.
That night, I sat waiting like usual — heater running, Spotify humming. 9:45… 9:50… 10:04. No sign of her.
I assumed she made a stop, or maybe her phone died again. But when the second bus came and she still wasn’t on it, I got out and asked the driver — a young guy I didn’t recognize.
He looked confused. “No one like that got on,” he said.
Then he paused.
“Wait—is this her phone?” he asked, holding up her cracked case with our boardwalk photo on the back.
It was hers. No purse, no coat. Just the phone, found under a seat.
Her regular driver—the older woman with the silver streak in her braid—had called out sick. First time in twenty years.
I asked where the bus had stopped before reaching my lot. The answer chilled me: it wasn’t near her job, but a shady part of town she’d never go to.
I drove straight there. Deserted warehouses. Flickering streetlights. An empty bus stop bench. No sign of her.
At midnight, I checked her apartment. Everything was untouched—glasses by the bed, dishes in the sink. But her overnight bag was gone. One she hadn’t used in years.
The next day, I visited her office. A coworker said she left early with a migraine. Odd. My mom never left early.
She also mentioned a name: Nora.
I didn’t know a Nora. But apparently, my mom had. And she meant enough to leave work for.
Back home, I searched through boxes under her bed. Old letters and papers. That’s when I found an envelope:
Nora – 1999
Inside: a photo of my mom and another woman on a beach. Taped to the back—a bus ticket from 1999 and a note:
“I never forgave myself for that day. But if you ever want to talk… Pier 14, Thursdays.”
It clicked.
Pier 14 was near where the bus had stopped.
I drove there. Fog clung to the pier. An older fisherman and a woman selling coffee were the only ones around.
I showed them the photo.
The woman nodded. “They were here yesterday,” she said. “Hugged like they hadn’t seen each other in decades. A black car picked them up.”
Not a cab. A private car. Headed toward the hills.
My mom didn’t know anyone in the hills.
Then I remembered a letter she once received—trembling hands, thrown in the trash. From a law firm: Kenley & Marks.
I called them.
“We’ve been expecting you,” the receptionist said. “Your mother asked us to give you something.”
An envelope.
Inside was a letter:
My sweet boy,
If you’re reading this, you came looking for me. I’m sorry for the worry. But something happened long ago that I never shared.
Nora was more than a friend. We loved each other, but back then, it wasn’t safe to say that. I made a choice that broke her heart—and mine.
She reached out last week. She’s sick. She wanted to talk. So I went.
We forgave each other.
I’m staying with her for now, just for a little while. Please don’t be angry. I’ll call soon.
Love,
Mom
I sat in their parking lot and cried. Out of confusion, relief… and pride.
A week later, she called. “She’s not doing well,” she said. “But we’re together. And it feels right.”
Two months later, Nora passed.
Mom came home changed—tired, but peaceful. We talked. Really talked.
And I realized: sometimes the people we think we know best are carrying untold stories. Regrets. Deep love they never got to live.
But when they finally get the chance to make peace with their past—
Let them.
Because in letting them heal,
you just might heal, too.
