Àwọn Àmì-ìwé Tí A Fẹ̀

He told me he wasn’t romantic, Then I found the box. We’ve been married 11 years. Mark never remembered anniversaries. Never bought flowers. Said “I love you” like he was reading a grocery list. I told myself some men just aren’t built for poetry. Last Saturday, I was cleaning the attic. Found an old shoebox with my name on it. For when I’m brave enough. I opened it. Hundreds of letters. Not to me. To a woman named Claire. Dated before we met. “Claire—you said my silence was louder than my love