The last time I saw my sister Laura, she was glowing in her wedding dress, barefoot on a plywood dance floor, laughing under yellow Christmas lights. The backyard smelled of lilacs and barbecue smoke. She looked like joy wrapped in lace. But just before she waved to her new husband, her smile flickered. I missed it then. I see it now.
The next morning, Laura vanished. Her wedding dress was folded neatly in the motel room. Her phone untouched. No note. No goodbye. We searched the woods, dragged the pond, questioned Luke. Nothing. She was gone—like a ghost slipping out of her own life.
Ten years passed. Mama stopped singing. Daddy worked the farm in silence. Luke left after two years, hollow-eyed and broken. I moved into Laura’s room, clinging to the hope she’d return.
Then, while cleaning the attic, I found a box. Inside was a letter—dated the day she disappeared. Laura had written it to me.
She said she felt trapped. That the wedding was a performance, not a promise. She loved Luke, but not enough to lose herself. She’d planned her escape for months, waiting for the moment she could slip away without hurting anyone more than necessary.
She wrote, “I needed to disappear to survive. I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye.”
I cried for hours. Not just for the loss, but for the clarity. She hadn’t been taken—she’d taken back her life.
I don’t know where she is. But I know she’s alive. And I know she chose freedom over fear. That letter didn’t bring her home—but it gave us peace.
