My sister and I had always been close.
We shared everything growing up — secrets, clothes, even boyfriends. But in her final years, she started keeping something huge from me.
Just months before she passed away from cancer, she handed me a small wooden box wrapped in twine and tied with a note that read:
“Open this when I’m gone.”
I laughed it off at the time.
“I’ll open it tomorrow,” I joked.
“She’s not dying today.”
But she was serious.
And just six weeks later, I found myself holding that same box — heavier now with grief than it ever was with whatever was inside.
As I sat alone in her old room, I finally untied the string and opened it.
Inside was a stack of letters — one for each year we had spent apart after college.
One for my parents.
One for her ex-husband.
And one for me.
The first line of mine read:
“If you’re reading this… I didn’t get to say goodbye the way I wanted to.”
“So let me start with what I never told you while I was alive.”
She went on to explain things I never knew.
That she struggled with depression long before her diagnosis.
That she blamed herself for something that happened in our teenage years — something I barely remembered.
That she had secretly followed my life through social media — watching every milestone, every joy, every heartbreak — but never reached out because she thought I wouldn’t want to hear from her.
And then came the words that broke me:
“You were my best friend.”
“Even when I felt like I lost you, I still loved you more than anyone else in this world.”
I cried harder than I had since her funeral.
Because here I was, blaming myself for not visiting more, not calling often enough — while she had been silently carrying guilt for years without telling me.
Now, I carry those letters everywhere.
Not as reminders of loss — but as proof that love doesn’t end with death.
And sometimes, the most important words come too late.