Mariana and I had had a marriage that lasted seven years. It was a time filled with both laughter and tears. When we fell in love, we believed that our love would be eternal, but life does not always follow the course one imagines. Work absorbed me, the distance between us grew and, after several failed attempts to reconcile, 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 was silent, but then I left. There were no arguments, no reproaches, only a quiet ending. I always thought that, in time, we would both have a new life and that, who knows, one day we could meet again and smile like two old friends.

But things didn’t go as I imagined.

A year after the divorce, work took me back to the city where Doña Carmen, my ex-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 long.

I stood in front of the door, with a strange nervousness. The door opened and Doña Carmen looked at me with a mixture of surprise and a deep sadness in her eyes. In a trembling voice he said to me:
“Son… You’re back.

I went in. The house remained 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… this…?” I stammered.

Doña Carmen sighed, her voice breaking:
“Mariana left us almost half a year ago.

I ran out of breath. I felt the earth sink beneath my feet. I didn’t want to believe it, but Doña Carmen’s tear-filled eyes said it all.

I slumped into my chair, my mind blank. Why hadn’t anyone told me? Why did I find out so late?

As if she guessed my torment, Doña Carmen placed an envelope in my hands:
“She asked me to keep it. He said if you ever came back, read it.

With trembling hands I opened it. Mariana’s handwriting appeared before my eyes, each stroke like a dagger in the chest.

“Love, if you’re reading this letter, maybe I’m gone. 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 have your life tied to me. I just wanted you to keep going, to fulfill your dreams… and if you can, forgive me for having left you in silence. I never stopped loving you; I only regret that our destiny has been so short.”

I pressed the letter to my chest as the tears flowed nonstop. The world was shattering into a thousand pieces, leaving me alone in excruciating pain.

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

That night I lit incense in front of his portrait. With a broken heart, I murmured:
“I’m back… but too late. If there is another life, I promise to be by your side and travel with you all the road that we could not finish in this one.

The secret that Doña Carmen had kept taught me something: sometimes, what we lose is not just a person, but a part of our own heart. And there are things that, if we do not assess them in time, we will never have the opportunity to recover.