Sometimes the past stays quiet — until it doesn’t. When an old envelope slipped out of a dusty attic shelf, it reopened a chapter of my life I thought had long since closed.I wasn’t looking for her. Not really. But somehow, every December, when the house dimmed by 5 p.m., and the old string lights blinked in the window just like they used to when the kids were small, Sue always found her way back into my thoughts.It was never deliberate. She’d float in like the scent of pine. Thirty-eight years later, and still, she haunted the corners of Christmas. My name is Mark, and I’m 59 years old now. And when I was in my 20s, I lost the woman I thought I’d grow old with.

Not because the love ran dry, or we had some dramatic falling-out. No, life just got noisy, fast, and complicated in ways we couldn’t have predicted when we were those wide-eyed college kids making promises under the bleachers.Susan — or Sue, to everyone who knew her — had this quiet, steel-strong way about her that made people trust her. She was the kind of woman who’d sit in a crowded room and still make you feel like you were the only one there.We met during our sophomore year of college. She dropped her pen. I picked it up. That was the beginning.We were inseparable. The kind of couple people rolled their eyes at but never really hated. Because we weren’t obnoxious about it.We were just… right.