Christopher James Hall

Cards I Couldn’t Send

I always bought a card for my daughter, even though I couldn’t send it.

Birthdays. Christmas. Sometimes just because.

I’d stand in the shop for too long, running my fingers over the edges, trying to pick the right one. Something she’d like. Something bright and cheerful, with little animals or glitter or flowers. Something that said I love you in a way that words never could.

Not knowing where she was, I kept it hidden away.

Tucked between old books, slipped inside a drawer, anywhere he wouldn’t find it.

He wouldn’t let me stay in touch with her after my ex took her. Said it was better that way. Said I needed to move on.

I never did.

Every time I wrote in those cards, my hands shook. Not from fear—though there was plenty of that—but from the ache of missing her. From the weight of knowing I couldn’t send them.

So I wrote anyway.

Short messages. Memories I didn’t want to forget. Words I needed her to hear, even if she couldn’t read them yet. I miss you. I love you. I’m still here.

And then I hid them away again, waiting.

Because one day, I’ll find out where she is.

And when that day comes, I’ll give her all those cards.

Just to show her I never stopped thinking about her.

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