Last time I saw Laura: she was twirling barefoot in beer‑slick plywood under golden lights, her once-ivory dress stained, but she looked undeniably joyous. A lilac breeze, smoky grill scents, laughter, and fireflies filled the air. Leaning over lemonade, I said, “You’re really married now.” She smiled—eyes sparkling, but for a flicker. I missed it then.
The next morning, she vanished. No note, no word—just silence. Weeks of searching yielded nothing. Laura became a ghost in our lives. Mama stopped humming. Dad stayed on the farm, heavier with sadness. Luke lingered, then left after two years. I stayed, moving into Laura’s room; her scent and stuff held in boxes, untouched.
Ten years later: a rainy day, attic, college‑stuff box—and a letter. Dated the morning after her wedding, written in her handwriting. “I’m sorry,” it began. She was pregnant. She couldn’t stay. I read it to Mama, Dad, Luke. Stunned, he wept. She hadn’t run from us out of hate, but from herself—chasing something she couldn’t voice.
That night, I followed the address to a small Wisconsin town. On a porch stood a girl—barefoot, chalk‑stained, sunflowers bright behind her. Inside, Laura—hair braided, softer, hesitant. We embraced. On her porch, she introduced Maddie. “She’s everything,” Laura said. Not Luke’s child, but hers. He loved the child; Laura had run not from love, but toward something honest.
Returning at dusk, I found Mama on the porch swing. “Did you find her?” she asked. I shook my head. “Maybe that’s for the best,” she sighed. Inside, I burned Laura’s letter in the fire. Some truths are meant to rest in ash.