When I pulled into the driveway that day, I never expected to see my husband and his ex-wife digging up the garden I’d poured so much of my time and love into. I slammed the brakes and jumped out of the car, heart racing, completely baffled by what I was seeing. The last I heard, Rhett and Janet barely spoke, so why were they together—here, in my garden—digging up my flowers like it was some sort of project they had secretly planned?

I stormed toward them, shouting, demanding answers, adrenaline taking over. Rhett stood frozen, shovel in hand, looking like a deer in headlights. Then Janet turned to him, a strange, almost smug expression on her face, and said loud enough for me to hear, “Oh, you didn’t tell her? Love, she deserves to know what we hid.” My breath caught in my throat. For a moment, everything around me went quiet except for the pounding in my ears. Rhett dropped the shovel, and it landed with a heavy thud. I looked at both of them, trying to understand what was happening. Janet looked so calm, too calm, while I was barely holding it together. Rhett mumbled something about not thinking this would ever come up again, that he thought it was all in the past.

I shot back, asking, “Bring what up?” My hands were shaking. Janet just nodded toward the spot they had been digging. I hesitated before stepping forward, not sure what I was even looking for, but then I saw it—a wooden box buried just beneath the surface. It looked weathered but intentional, something carefully crafted, not tossed aside. Rhett pulled it out and opened it, and what I saw inside made my stomach flip. Letters. Dozens of them. Some yellowed with age, some looking newer. All addressed to someone named “Arlo.” Before Rhett could explain, Janet spoke softly, “Arlo was our baby.” I stumbled back.

“You had a child?” I asked, stunned. Rhett’s voice cracked as he told me Arlo had been stillborn twelve years ago. They had buried these letters as part of their grieving process, writing to their son now and then, pouring out their hopes and love to the child they never got to meet. They had stopped eventually, moved on with life, but clearly, the memory never really left them. I was speechless. It wasn’t anger anymore—it was heartbreak, confusion, and guilt all tangled together. I asked Rhett why he’d never told me. He said he didn’t want to bring that pain into our life, that he had convinced himself he had made peace with it. But a few weeks ago, he received a letter with no return address—just a single sentence: “Go back to the garden. The truth still grows there.” Janet said they were afraid someone had discovered the box or moved it, and they needed to know if it was still there. I looked at the letters again, thinking of how many emotions were buried under the roses I had planted, completely unaware.

I whispered, “I’m sorry,” because there wasn’t much else I could say in that moment. Rhett looked up at me, his expression raw and open in a way I hadn’t seen in a long time. He said he thought keeping that part of his past from me would protect me, but now he wasn’t so sure. Janet added gently that this wasn’t about old love or unfinished feelings, just about the kind of grief that never fully disappears, no matter how much time passes. We sat on the porch later that evening, not saying much, just quietly going through a few of the letters. They weren’t dramatic—just reflections, updates, memories. Notes about seasons, pets, dreams they had for a boy who never got the chance to live. Then, tucked among the newer letters, was one written in a familiar handwriting that didn’t belong to either of them. Rhett’s mother, who passed away two years ago, had written a letter to Arlo too. Rhett said he found it in her things and buried it a month ago—that moment must have stirred up everything. I thought that day might break something between us, but strangely, it did the opposite. It opened a door. Rhett and I began talking about Arlo—really talking. Janet came over again, this time with coffee and photo albums. I realized that I wasn’t in a competition with her past. I was a part of Rhett’s future. And understanding that helped me see how healing sometimes means acknowledging what came before. Together, we decided to build a simple wooden bench over the spot where the box had been buried. Something peaceful. I even planted new roses—blue ones—because Rhett told me they had planned to name their son Arlo, after the sky.