I came home to find my husband, Rhett, and his ex-wife Janet digging up my garden. Furious and confused, I demanded answers. That’s when Janet smirked and said, “You didn’t tell her? She deserves to know what we hid.”
Buried under the rosebushes was a small wooden box filled with letters—all addressed to someone named “Arlo.”
“Arlo was our baby,” Janet said quietly. Rhett explained: their son was stillborn twelve years ago. The letters were how they coped—written over the years and buried as part of their grief.
Rhett never told me. He wanted to protect our new life. But a mysterious note had arrived recently: “Go back to the garden. The truth still grows there.” Fearing someone found the box, they came to check.
Among the letters was one from Rhett’s mother—who’d passed away two years ago. She’d written to Arlo too. That letter, buried recently, had triggered it all.
That day didn’t break us—it opened something deeper. Over the next week, we honored Arlo together. We built a bench, planted blue roses. I realized I wasn’t a replacement for the past—I was part of the healing.
