For thirty years, Hector never said “I love you.” He showed it—fixing things, small caring acts—but never spoke the words. I told him every day, hoping he’d say it back, but he never did.
When he was dying, he whispered, “I loved you every day. I just… wasn’t supposed to.” I didn’t understand.
After he passed, I found letters he’d written me, explaining that a dangerous woman from his past had threatened anyone he loved. Saying “I love you” aloud could have put me in danger. His silence was his way of protecting me.
Even after she died, fear kept him from telling me. But his letters showed his love was real and deep, even if unspoken.
Now, I carry his memory and the lesson he left: love doesn’t always need words to be true.
If you feel unseen, remember—sometimes love speaks loudest in silence.
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