Karl was forced to run away from his wedding, but Jessica never understood why he stood her up at the altar. Years later, she received a note in the mail with his name on it. No matter how much time had passed, Jessica never forgot him, and what he wrote was astonishing.
“You will leave this church immediately and never return. Do you understand me, boy?” Hubert Pennigton, Jessica’s father, threatened Karl with a stern look. They were standing in the men’s dressing room behind the church, and Jessica was getting ready just across the hall in the other room.
“I’m not a boy, sir. I’m a man, and I love your daughter. I will not abandon her. It’s our wedding day,” Karl insisted, pleading his future father-in-law to understand.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Pexels
“I never liked you two dating, and I’m not going to let this continue. My daughter will not be marrying a loser who works paycheck to paycheck,” the older man sneered. “Do you hear me? I have friends in high places, as well as connections in some others. I can make your life a nightmare. If you don’t disappear willingly, I’ll make you leave by any means necessary.”
“Is that a threat?” Karl asked, squaring up to Hubert, trying not to show how afraid he was. He knew Jessica’s family was connected to some important people and a few dangerous folks, too, so Karl knew the older man’s words were not in vain.
“I don’t make threats, boy, I make promises. Now, you will leave this place right now without anyone noticing and ghost Jessica forever, OR ELSE!” Hubert finished, raising his voice, in the end, to get his point across thoroughly. He poked his index finger in Karl’s chest painfully, gave him a disdainful look, and exited.
Karl didn’t know what to do. He truly loved Jessica, but her father would hurt them both just to get his way. He paced around the room for a few more minutes then decided to leave before his groomsmen came to find him. He was quick, exiting through the back of the Masonic Temple in Detroit, Michigan and hailing a cab right there.
“Where to, sir?” the taxi driver asked.
“DTW, please,” Karl replied. He was going to the airport and flying across the country to get away from these people. I hope Jessica can forgive me, Karl thought while resting his elbow on the window sill and facing out.
Fifty years later…
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Pexels
At 75, Jessica liked to sit outside on her porch and watch the kids running around Rosedale Park Historic District, one of the best neighborhoods in Detroit. She always took a cup of tea and a book to read. It was a peaceful time, but Jessica inevitably thought about her life during those times. Today was that kind of day.
She remembered her first wedding well, as it was the only time she was ever excited to have one. Karl was the love of her life, or so she thought. But when she reached the end of the aisle on her father’s arm, she saw everyone’s worried faces. Karl had disappeared, and no one knew why. They waited hours for him to return.
His groomsmen went to his house, and everything was intact. But Karl never returned, and Jessica cried on the steps of the Masonic Temple for several more hours. It was one of the best wedding venues in the city, and she always dreamed of getting married there. However, it was not to be. Her mother comforted her as best she could, but her father was actually happy.
Five years later, her father introduced her to Michael Keller, the son of a family friend. He was wealthy and connected, so her dad pushed until she accepted his proposal. They got married and had a daughter, Cynthia, almost immediately. However, Jessica filed for divorce the moment her father died.
Her husband had cheated throughout their entire relationship and was glad to separate from her, so it was a win-win situation for everyone involved. She took the then-six-year-old Cynthia, moved to her house in the Rosedale Park area, and forgot about her failed love life.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Pexels
Years went by, and Cynthia grew up to become an amazing career woman. She got married right there at the Masonic Temple and gave Jessica three gorgeous grandchildren, who visited often.
I had a great life, Jessica thought to herself while sipping her tea. It was true, although she never tried dating again. But once in a while, she thought about Karl and still wondered why he had disappeared.
Suddenly, the mailman snapped her out of her inner musings with a bright smile and a loud, “Hello, Mrs. Pennington!”
“Oh, dear. You scared me,” Jessica answered after almost dropping her tea.
The mailman laughed and apologized humorously. “I’m sorry, ma’am. But I have a letter for you. I think someone wrote it by hand even. So fancy! People don’t do that anymore,” the mailman said, handing Jessica the letter. She thanked him with a smile, and he left, waving goodbye.
The last thing she expected to see was the name “Karl Pittman” on the envelope, but it was right there along with her name and address.
“I can’t believe this,” she breathed and settled her cup of tea on the porch railing with a shaking hand. Suddenly, she was back at that church, crying on her mother’s shoulders.
Her hands still shook as she tried to open the envelope. She took a big breath before starting to read what was Karl’s unmistakable handwriting.
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Pexels
“Dear Jessica,
I don’t know if you’ll be glad to hear from me. But after all this time, I want you to know that not a day goes by where I don’t think about you. Your father threatened me on our wedding day, and I was young and afraid. I shouldn’t have listened, but I did, and I ran off. I moved to California with nothing but the clothes on my back.”
Jessica had to stop reading for a few moments and wipe a few tears off. She knew her father had something to do with it. She knew Karl loved her and wouldn’t have done it otherwise. It didn’t change anything, but it soothed that old ache that never went away. Karl was right to leave. Her father never made threats he wasn’t serious about and didn’t take “no” for an answer. She focused on the letter again and continued reading.
“I never married nor had children. You were the love of my life, and I wanted nothing else. I hope this letter finds you well. I’m leaving my phone number, and there’s my address, so you can write me back if you want. I don’t know how to use Facebook, and all that stuff kids have these days. But I hope to hear from you.
Sincerely, Karl.”
For illustration purposes only. | Source: Pexels
Jessica’s tears kept falling for several minutes after finishing the letter, but then she laughed. She also had no idea how to use all that technology available these days. Therefore, she got up and went inside to find her stationery. It was time to write back.
For the next few months, they wrote to each other often, recounting even the smallest moments in each other’s lives. Until Karl finally called her and they stayed on the phone for hours. A year later, he moved back to Detroit, and they rekindled their lost relationship.
They were old and might not have much time together, but they were going to enjoy one another’s love for as long as they could.
What can we learn from this story?
- It’s never too late to find love again. Jessica gave up on relationships for many years until she found the love of her life again at 75.
- Tell your partner the truth. If Karl had told Jessica about her father’s threats, they could’ve run away together or dealt with it in some form. But he took off, and they would never know what could’ve been.
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This account is inspired by our reader’s story and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only. Share your story with us; maybe it will change someone’s life.
My 81-year-old grandma started posting selfies on Instagram with heavy filters.
The notification popped up on my phone, another Instagram post from Grandma Rose. I sighed, tapping on the icon. There she was, her face smoothed and airbrushed beyond recognition, a pair of oversized, cartoonish sunglasses perched on her nose. A cascade of digital sparkles rained down around her. The caption read, “Feeling my vibe! #OOTD #YOLO #GrandmaGoals.”
My stomach churned. At first, it had been a novelty, a quirky, endearing quirk of my 81-year-old grandmother. But now, weeks into her social media blitz, it was bordering on unbearable.
It had started innocently enough. She’d asked me to help her set up an Instagram account, intrigued by the photos I’d shown her of my travels and friends. I’d thought it was a sweet way for her to stay connected with the family, a digital scrapbook of sorts.
But Grandma Rose had taken to Instagram like a fish to water, or rather, like a teenager to a viral trend. She’d discovered the world of filters, the power of hashtags, and the allure of online validation. Suddenly, she was posting multiple times a day, each photo more heavily filtered than the last.
The captions were a whole other level of cringe. She’d pepper them with slang I barely understood, phrases like “slay,” “lit,” and “no cap.” She’d even started using emojis, a barrage of hearts, stars, and laughing faces that seemed to clash with her gentle, grandmotherly image.
The pinnacle of my mortification came when she asked me, with wide, earnest eyes, how to do a “get ready with me” video. “You know, darling,” she’d said, her voice brimming with excitement, “like those lovely young ladies on the internet. I want to show everyone my makeup routine!”
I’d choked on my coffee. My makeup routine consisted of moisturizer and a swipe of mascara. Grandma Rose’s “makeup routine” involved a dusting of powder and a dab of lipstick.
The worst part was, my entire family was egging her on. They’d shower her with likes and comments, calling her “amazing,” “inspiring,” and “a social media queen.” They were completely oblivious to my growing dread.
I was trapped in a vortex of secondhand embarrassment. What if my friends saw these posts? What if my coworkers stumbled upon her profile? I could already imagine the whispers, the snickers, the awkward attempts at polite conversation.
I found myself avoiding family gatherings, dreading the inevitable discussions about Grandma Rose’s latest post. I’d scroll through my feed, wincing at each new notification, my finger hovering over the “unfollow” button, a button I couldn’t bring myself to press.
One evening, I found myself sitting across from my mom, the glow of her phone illuminating her face as she scrolled through Grandma Rose’s profile. “Isn’t she just the cutest?” she gushed, showing me a photo of Grandma Rose with a digital halo and angel wings.
“Mom,” I said, my voice strained, “don’t you think this is… a little much?”
My mom looked at me, her brow furrowed. “What do you mean? She’s having fun. She’s expressing herself.”
“But it’s not her,” I argued. “It’s like she’s trying to be someone else.”
“She’s adapting, darling,” my mom said, her voice gentle. “She’s embracing technology. She’s living her best life.”
I knew I wasn’t going to win this argument. My family, in their well-meaning attempt to support Grandma Rose, were completely blind to the awkwardness of the situation.
I decided to try a different approach. The next time Grandma Rose asked me for help with her Instagram, I sat down with her and gently explained the concept of “authenticity.” I showed her photos of herself, unfiltered and unedited, her smile genuine, her eyes sparkling with wisdom.
“You’re beautiful just the way you are, Grandma,” I said, my voice sincere. “You don’t need filters or slang to be amazing.”
She looked at the photos, her eyes softening. “Do you really think so, darling?” she asked, her voice a whisper.
“Absolutely,” I said, squeezing her hand.
Grandma Rose didn’t stop posting, but she did tone it down. The filters became less intense, the captions more genuine. She even started sharing stories from her life, anecdotes that were both heartwarming and hilarious.
And slowly, I began to appreciate her online presence. I realized that it wasn’t about trying to be an influencer; it was about Grandma Rose finding her own way to connect with the world, to express her joy, to simply be herself. And in the end, that was more than enough.
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