The Unmailed Letters

In the late stages of pregnancy, my body grew increasingly heavy; with every bend, a dull, pulling pain radiated from my lower abdomen. The sunlight was perfect today; thinking to take advantage of my clearer spirits, I resolved to thoroughly clean the storage room. That room was cluttered with too many miscellaneous items, most of which were Todd Harrell's belongings from before our marriage. We have been married for three years, and he always said those old things held sentimental value, forbidding me from touching them. I used to be too indifferent to argue, but now, thinking of making space after the child is born, I no longer heeded his instructions. In the deepest corner of the storage room sat a wooden box thick with dust. The box was antique, its lock rusted, and it opened with a gentle twist. I had expected to find old books or vintage photos inside, but when I reached in, my hand touched a thick stack of envelopes. All the envelopes were of the same style—cream-colored paper with edges slightly yellowed. Each letter was addressed to: Lucy Lawrence. The sender's signature was Todd Harrell. I had a vague recollection of the name Lucy Lawrence. She was a former colleague of Todd Harrell; he had mentioned her several times, saying she was a very capable young woman. I withdrew the topmost letter and unfolded it to read. The handwriting was Todd Harrell's, each stroke carrying a tenderness I had never seen before. The letter expressed his longing for Lucy, recounting their moments together; the words burned with heat, as if they might scorch through the paper. I numbly turned through them one by one. Each letter was numbered, from one to five hundred and twenty-one. He had never once written a letter for me. Our wedding was very simple; he had said life should be practical, without even a proper declaration of love. I had consoled myself, believing he was merely reserved. It turned out that it was not reserve, but that his tenderness and romance had never belonged to me. At the bottom of the box, besides the love letters, there lay a delicate velvet case. I opened the case to find a pair of women's underwear, styled seductively—obviously not mine. Tucked beside the underwear was a small note, penned in delicate handwriting—undoubtedly a woman's. "Todd, happy birthday. May every time you see this remind you of me." The signature read Lucy Lawrence. That day was Todd Harrell's birthday, coinciding with the first anniversary of our marriage registration. I recall personally baking a cake that day, waiting up for him late into the night. He returned reeking of alcohol, claiming he had been entertaining clients, and went to bed without even tasting the cake. It turned out he wasn't entertaining clients, but spending an intimate evening with Lucy Lawrence, accepting this indiscreet gift. A wave of overwhelming anger and grievance surged within me. My chest heaved violently, while an ever-increasing, sharp pain radiated from my lower abdomen. I pushed myself up, intending to reach for my phone to call for help, but my legs buckled, and I collapsed heavily to the floor. Blood began to seep beneath me as my consciousness steadily faded. Before losing awareness, all I could think was that this child was arriving at the worst possible time. When I awoke again, I found myself lying on a hospital bed. The acrid scent of disinfectant stung my nostrils, while faint cries of a baby echoed in my ears. The nurse came over and told me that I had gone into premature labor; it was a girl, very healthy. I gazed at the tiny infant inside the incubator; with closed eyes and long eyelashes, she bore a striking resemblance to Todd Harrell. My heart was awash with conflicted emotions—softened by the gentleness of becoming a mother for the first time, yet overwhelmingly chilled to the very bone.