I ignored the little box under our Christmas tree for years. My husband, Tyler, claimed it was a memento from his first love—a harmless memory, he said. But memories don’t haunt you like that. Last Christmas, I finally gave in to the gnawing curiosity. I opened it, and what I found changed everything.
I met Tyler when I was 32 and he was 35. From the start, it felt like fate. Our connection was instant, like stepping outside to the first snowfall of the season. Everything seemed perfect—he made me laugh, and his quiet confidence felt like a safe harbor.
Or so I thought. Over time, I realized his calmness wasn’t confidence. It was avoidance.
Our first Christmas together was magical. Soft music played, candles flickered, and snow dusted the windows. We unwrapped gifts, ribbons and bows piling up around us. Then I noticed it—a small, neatly wrapped box sitting under the tree with a slightly flattened bow.
“Oh,” I said, tilting my head toward it. “Is that for me?”
Tyler glanced at it briefly and shook his head. “No, that’s from my first love. She gave it to me before we broke up. I’ve never opened it.”
My smile faltered. “Why keep it?”
He shrugged, folding the sweater I’d just given him. “It’s just a memory. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Something felt off, but I didn’t press him. People hold on to strange things, I told myself. Love letters, ticket stubs—who was I to judge?
The years rolled on. Tyler and I got married, had two kids, and built a busy, happy life together. Every Christmas, that box would reappear under the tree, untouched, and Tyler’s explanation never changed.
One year, I asked again. “Why do you keep that gift, Tyler? You’ve had it longer than you’ve had me.”
He sighed, barely looking up. “Nicole, it’s just a box. Let it be.”
I let it go, though a part of me wanted to scream. Back then, I still believed peace was better than answers.
As the years passed, our kids grew up and left home. The house grew quieter, but the box never missed a Christmas. It sat under the tree like a ghost, wrapped in the same pristine paper. It was no longer just a gift—it was a reminder of everything unspoken between us.
Last Christmas, something inside me snapped. I’d just finished putting away dinner leftovers when I saw that box again, sitting smugly under the tree. My chest tightened. I couldn’t walk away this time.
I stood, holding the letter aloft like evidence in a courtroom. “Memory? You’ve clung to this for thirty years, Tyler, and you never even read it? She was pregnant, waiting for you at a bus station! And you didn’t show because you didn’t bother to open it?”
His face crumpled. “I didn’t… I was scared.”
“Coward,” I spat, thrusting the letter toward him.
He took it with trembling hands and read it, his shoulders shaking as realization dawned. He let out a low, guttural sound and dropped onto the sofa, burying his face in his hands.
“She was waiting for me,” he whispered. “And I didn’t go.”
I stood over him, feeling nothing but exhaustion. I’d spent years waiting, too—waiting for him to love me fully, without the shadow of her lingering between us.
“Tyler,” I said quietly, “I’m done. I’ve spent too long being second to a ghost.”
He didn’t stop me as I walked away.
The divorce was quiet. We split everything evenly—the house, the cars, the memories. Tyler eventually tracked her down. I heard through our youngest that she was happily married, and their son wanted nothing to do with him. He had missed his chance. Twice.
As for me, I moved into a small apartment. Last Christmas Eve, I sat by the window, sipping tea and watching the soft glow of lights from the neighboring buildings. There was no tree, no gifts, and no ghosts.
Just peace.