For years I ignored the little box under our Christmas tree. My husband said it was just a memory of his first love, but memories don’t haunt like that. Last Christmas, something inside me clicked. I opened a present and discovered a secret that changed everything.
I met Tyler when I was 32 and he was 35. It sounds corny, but it was like fate. Our connection was quick and electric, like stepping outside the moment the first snow fell. Everything was magical, sparkling and impossibly perfect.
He made me laugh with his dry humour and I admired his quiet confidence. He was never cocky or posturing. Tyler was just steady and confident, like a quiet harbour in a storm.
At least, that’s what I thought. I later realised that his calmness wasn’t confidence, but cowardice.
Our first Christmas together was everything I’d dreamed of. Candles flickered, quiet music played, snow powdered the windows. We took turns unwrapping presents, leaving ribbons and bows strewn across the floor. And then I saw it.
There was one present left under the tree: a small, neatly wrapped box with a slightly flattened bow.
‘Oh?’ I said, tilting my head. ‘Is that for me, too?’
Tyler looked up from the jumper I’d just given him and shook his head. ‘No, it’s… it’s something from my first love. She gave it to me before we broke up.’ He shrugged as if it were nothing. ‘I put it under the Christmas tree every year, but I’ve never opened it.’
I blinked. ‘What?’
He didn’t even look up. Just folded the jumper in his lap. ‘It’s nothing special. It’s just a memory of someone who once meant a lot to me.’
I felt a nagging in the back of my neck. ‘Why didn’t you open it?’
‘We broke up shortly after and I didn’t feel like opening it,’ he said, and that was the end of it.
The moment had passed, or at least it seemed that way to him.
But I remember sitting there, and my smile seemed a little too strained. Somewhere in the back of my mind a little red flag loomed, but I told myself it was okay. People keep strange things. Old love letters. Ticket stubs. Nobody’s perfect, right?
As the years went by, we built a life together. Tyler and I got married and bought a small starter home. We had two children who filled the rooms with screams of joy and baby tears.
We were happy. Or busy, which sometimes feels like the same thing. Christmases came and went like clockwork.
I set up the tree and Tyler did the garlands. The kids would argue over which ornament went where, and every year there was sure to be that little box under the tree.
Around the seventh year of our marriage, I asked him about it again.
‘Why do you still keep that old present?’ I asked, dusting off the pine needles on the floor. ‘You’ve had it longer than I have.’
He looked up from unravelling the garlands, frowning his eyebrows as if I’d just asked him to solve a world peace problem.
‘It’s just a box, Nicole. She’s not hurting anyone. Leave her alone.’
I could have argued. I wanted to, but I didn’t. Back then, I still believed the world was more important than answers. I still believed in us.
Time slipped through my fingers. Christmases came and went. Kids grew up and went off to college. They called less and less often and missed more and more holidays with family.
The house became quieter than I expected. It’s funny how you never realise how much you’ll miss the noise.
And this box? It never missed a year.
Every December, I’d watch it appear like a ghost. Tyler would put it in a place where it was out of sight but still clearly visible. It still had the same stupid paper on it, as smooth as the day his first love wrapped it.
I didn’t say anything else. I just stared at it, felt my chest constrict, and moved on. But something had changed.
The box wasn’t just a box anymore. It contained everything we’d never said to each other. It was his silence on those nights when I lay awake and wondered if he’d ever loved me as much as he loved her.
One night, after cleaning up the remnants of dinner, I stood in the kitchen with my hands on my hips and stared up at the ceiling as if he had to give me an answer.
Tyler still hadn’t done the dishes as promised, or taken out the trash. Instead, he sat upstairs typing something on his laptop, and I kept everything to myself, as always.
I had dedicated years of my life to this man and our family, and I was tired of constantly fighting with him and reminding him about household chores. I looked around our kitchen, and my heart squeezed with longing for something I couldn’t put a name to.
I sighed, wiped my hands on the dishes, and headed into the living room.
The Christmas tree lights flickered softly, casting everything in a warm golden glow. Everything was supposed to be peaceful. But then I saw the damn box.
She sat there, smug, untouched. Still unopened after all these years.
Something deep and sharp opened in my chest. I could have walked away. I should have, but I’d walked away too many times already.
I grabbed the letter off the floor and before I had time to think, I tore it open. The paper crackled in my hands and the stupid flattened bow fell to the floor. My breath came in quick gasps as I tore through the thin cardboard, revealing a gift from Tyler’s first love.
Inside was a letter, neatly folded, aged to a delicate yellow colour. I froze.
It was the thing he’d been protecting for thirty years. My heart raced in my ears as I unfolded the page, and my fingers trembled.
When I read the first sentence, my stomach dropped. I slumped backwards and sank heavily onto the couch as my knees weakened.
‘Tyler, I’m pregnant. I know it’s a shock, but I didn’t know where else to turn. My parents found out and are forcing me to stay away from you, but if you meet me at the bus station on the 22nd, we can elope together. I’ll be wearing a green coat.
Please meet me there, Tyler. I’m so sorry I lied the day I broke up with you. My dad was watching from the car. I never stopped loving you.’
I pressed my fist to my mouth to keep from making a sound.
She was there. She was waiting for him. And he never came. But worse than that, he didn’t even open the letter. He didn’t even suspect…
I heard Tyler’s footsteps coming down the stairs. I didn’t even try to hide what I’d done.
When he saw me holding the letter, his face went pale.
‘What have you done?!’ His voice was harsh, cutting through the air like glass. ‘That was my dearest memory!’
I stood up and slowly turned towards him, feeling something inside me tear.
“Memory?” I raised the letter like a battle flag. “You mean this? The letter you never even opened? You mean you’ve been clinging to this ‘memory’ for thirty years, but you haven’t even had the courage to see what it is?”
He blinked and stepped back as if I’d slapped him.
“I didn’t…” He stopped and ran a hand over his face. “I was scared, okay?”
“Coward,” I hissed, throwing the letter at him like a sword.
His eyes widened. We stood like that for what seemed like an eternity, but then he picked up the page and read the letter.
Tears didn’t even come to my eyes as I watched him sigh in shock and lean back against the back of the couch. I was too tired for this.
Emotions flashed across his face, and at one point he let out a quiet groan. He seemed to reread her words at least three times before dropping his head in his arms.
‘She… she waited and I didn’t come.’ His shoulders were shaking and his voice was thick with emotion.
A silence hung between us, thick and suffocating. He wept like a man mourning his own grave. But I didn’t feel sorry for him. I was waiting, too.
‘Tyler,’ I said, my voice as calm as a calm lake after a storm. ‘I’m tired. Tired of being second to the ghost.’ I felt my heart calm down. ‘We’re done.’
He didn’t follow me as I left the room.
The divorce went quietly. Neither of us had the energy to make it messy. We shared the house, the cars, and the rest of our lives.
He tracked her down. I learnt about it from our youngest. She was happily married and their son had no interest in getting to know Tyler or his half-siblings. He missed his chance. Twice.
And me? I have my own flat. On Christmas Eve, I sat by the window, watching the soft glow of the lights from the neighbouring flats.
This year there was no Christmas tree, no boxes, no ghosts. Just peace.
