Susan would come to our house without warning. She knew where we kept the glasses, what kind of coffee Michael liked, and she even had a spare key to our house.
I never thought there was anything strange about that.
She was Susan.
My best friend.
That’s why, when I suggested spending a week together by the ocean that summer, I immediately agreed.
Michael had died almost a year earlier and, since his death, I had barely left the house.
Susan said to me:
“Linda, you need a few days just to breathe.”
On the last day of our vacation, we were sunbathing when Susan asked me to take out my phone.
“Let’s take one last picture together.”s
I laughed.
“Last? Last of what?”
She took off her sunglasses, looked at me for several seconds, and smiled again.
“Our last photo as friends.”
I thought she was joking.
“Susan, you’re scaring me.”
She leaned her shoulder against mine.
I took the picture.
We both smiled.
But then I realized that Susan’s hand was shaking.
“What’s going on?”
She remained silent for a long time.
Then she said something I still haven’t been able to forget.
“Tomorrow you’ll find out who I really have been in your life.”
The continuation of the story is in the comments 👇‼️
That night, she refused to explain anything.
She said she wanted to tell me everything in the morning.
But when I woke up the next day, Susan’s bed was empty.
Her suitcase was gone.
She wasn’t answering her phone.
And on my table was a white envelope.
There was only one sentence written on it:
“Linda, read this until the end. Then you can hate me.”
I opened the envelope.
The first thing I saw inside was Michael’s handwriting.
My husband’s handwriting.
And after reading the first sentence of that letter, everything slipped from my hands.
For several minutes, I sat on the edge of the bed, unable to pick up the letter.
