Forget About Her, Son: A Story of Letting Go in Suburbia

“Forget about her, son.”

My father’s voice was sharp, echoing through the hallway as I stood trembling in the kitchen, the early Sunday sunlight brushing the faded linoleum. But my mind was still at the front door, where only minutes before, Emily’s mother had stood—her face blotchy and exhausted, her fists clenched around a crumpled envelope.

I hadn’t even had a chance to wipe the sleep from my eyes when the doorbell started shrieking at 6:12 AM. I thought maybe it was a mistake—a neighbor’s emergency, or the mailman on some weird overtime shift—but then came the pounding. I stumbled to the door, heart already racing.

The moment I saw Mrs. Thompson, I knew. Something was wrong. She shoved the envelope into my hands. No greeting, just a whispered, “She’s gone, Adam.”

I stared at her. “Gone where?”

She just shook her head, lip trembling. “She left last night. She left this for you.”

I opened the envelope with shaking fingers, pulling out a letter in Emily’s neat, looping script.

Adam—

I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore—the pretending, the waiting. I know you love me, but I have to find myself far from here. Please don’t come looking for me. I need you to let me go. Love, Em.

I reread the words again and again, numb. Emily was gone. The girl I’d loved since freshman year, who’d sat beside me at every football game, who’d taught me to dance in her parents’ backyard under the glow of string lights—I couldn’t imagine my life without her in it.

My dad’s heavy footsteps broke the silence. “What the hell is going on?”

I tried to answer, but the words stuck in my throat. He snatched the letter from my hands and read, his jaw tightening. “She’s not coming back. You need to forget about her, son. Focus on school. Get your head on straight.”

I wanted to scream. “You don’t get it!”

He stepped closer, his eyes hard. “I get it more than you think. You’re not the only one who’s ever had their heart broken. Don’t throw your future away over a girl who walked out.”

I shoved past him, the letter crumpling in my fist, and ran upstairs. I barely heard my mom’s soft voice behind me—“Adam, honey, come back…”

The next week was a blur. I tried to go about my routines—work my shift at the grocery store, finish my homework, sit at our usual lunch table at school—but everywhere I looked, there were reminders of Emily. Our friends whispered about her disappearance; some said she’d run away to New York, others claimed she was staying with an aunt in California. Nobody knew for sure.

At home, things got worse. My dad started drinking again, the smell of whiskey seeping into the walls. He accused me of moping, of letting my grades slip. My mom tried to mediate, but her gentle words barely reached me through the fog of loss.

One night, the shouting got so bad the neighbors called the cops. I was sitting on the porch, knees pulled to my chest, when Officer Greene crouched beside me.

“Rough night, Adam?”

I nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

“Listen, I know things seem impossible right now. But you gotta take care of yourself. People leave sometimes—it sucks, but you’re still here. You hear me?”

I just shrugged, but his words stuck with me.

By March, the pain hardened into something else—anger, maybe, or a desperate need for answers. I skipped class and drove out to the old bridge where Emily and I used to watch the river. I played her favorite playlist, hoping for some sort of sign, but there was nothing. Just the cold wind off the water and the memory of her laughter.

Back at home, my dad was waiting. He was drunk, as usual, and started in as soon as I walked through the door.

“Where you been, huh? Out searching for your little runaway girlfriend?”

I exploded. “Why can’t you just care, Dad? Why can’t you understand that she mattered to me?”

He hurled his glass at the wall, shattering it. “You think I didn’t care about your mother when she left me for three months? You think you’re the only one who’s ever been abandoned?”

It was the first time he’d ever admitted it. I stared at him, stunned.

He slumped into a chair, suddenly fragile. “I just… I don’t want to see you fall apart like I did.”

For the first time, I saw the cracks in his armor—the pain he’d tried to hide behind anger and whiskey. I sat down across from him.

“Dad, I’m not okay. I haven’t been for a while.”

He nodded, tears in his eyes. “Me neither, Adam. Me neither.”

That night, we talked for hours—about Emily, about my mom, about all the things we’d kept bottled up for years. It didn’t fix everything, but it was a start.

Over the next few months, I learned to live with the ache. I went to therapy. I reconnected with old friends. I even applied to colleges out of state, places I’d never dared to dream about before. My dad started going to AA meetings, and my mom took up painting again, filling the house with color.

Sometimes, late at night, I still read Emily’s letter. I wonder where she is, if she ever found what she was looking for. I wonder if I’ll ever really move on.

But I’m trying. I’m learning that letting go doesn’t mean forgetting. It just means making space for something new.

Do we ever really let go of the people we love? Or do we just learn to live with their ghosts?