Dear Amelia,

I don't think I told you this, but your name is quite lovely. I Googled what it means. Cheesy, I know.

It means work, and I'd like to think that meant God put in a lot of work when he created you and not that I will have to put in all the work in this marriage.

I'm a hard-working man, but I'm totally clueless in the marriage department. Especially having a teenager as my wife. I think that's a lot harder than if two sensible adults were to get married.

My parents have been married for twenty-five years, but I wouldn't use their marriage as an example. My mother is practically my father's doormat and that's not how I think marriage should be.

Before I get carried away, I'm sorry I had to leave you the way I did. I'm smiling now because my nephew came into this world healthy and he has my eyes. My brother died about 8 months ago from colon cancer and his son is all I have left of him now. He's the reason I left you and was unable to attend your mother's funeral.

I don't know you at all, we're strangers, but we're married now. I didn't know your mother either, but I can tell that you loved her dearly. I'm truly sorry for your loss.

There are so many things I want to tell you, but I'm not sure the timing is right. I know you're still grieving.

I keep going back to the hospital room where we got married. I remember the dress you wore. It wasn't white, but beige. You looked radiant in it.

I didn't expect you to look that pretty standing there, tear streaks staining your brown cheeks. When I decided to go ahead with this marriage, I didn't think we would ever be friends.

Didn't think I would feel this protective of you. We sat on the floor of that miserable hospital room, talking quietly while your mother lay dying on the bed across from us.

You leaned your head on my shoulder and I remembered the scent of your shampoo wafting up to my nose. It smelled like coconut. So I associate that scent with you now.

You asked me how old I was and I said twenty-one. You looked surprised and then you smiled.

"Do I look older?" I asked.

"No, I'm just glad you're not seventeen like me. I would never marry the boys in my class. They're not that smart. My mother said you were smart and good with business."

I regret not kissing you then and not kissing you when the pastor announced us husband and wife. I did kiss you on your forehead and your temple but wished I'd kiss you on your lips.

I must admit, I'm a tiny bit scared of your father. I didn't like the way he looked at me. I think he hates me. I also didn't want to give you false ideas. I was always going to come back to St. Maarten and you were to finish high school.

That's what your mother and I discussed before she passed. After that, I never thought about what our marriage would look like.

I guess I'll leave that up to you.

I hope you like to travel and going to the beach. I've always wanted to make love in the ocean. Maybe one day you'll make that dream come through.

I know I didn't imagine our connection in the hospital room. We spent 48 hours with each other in close proximity. I've never shared this much air with a stranger before.

What do they say about trauma bringing people closer?

Maybe I need to stop thinking about being close to you. You're not even eighteen yet. So for now I'll just think of you as a sister or a cousin. I'm sure your father would prefer that.

Thank you for taking this leap of faith with a stranger. I don't know what it means to be married, but I know that I want to keep you safe and far away from everything dark and evil.

I wished your mother didn't have to die when she did. I wished my parents had shown up at our wedding. But all this wishing will not change anything that has already happened.

I don't want you to think I'm weird for marrying a stranger, but if you had a father like mine, you would marry a wooden chair if it was possible.

This is not me saying that you're equivalent to a wooden chair, but our marriage will benefit both parties. Now it's up to us to make this worth it, where we're both happy moving forward, or we can leave it as is, a marriage of convenience.

I plan on returning to Curacao soon to deal with your father's restaurant once the business plan has been approved.

Until then, keep our conversations near to your heart and my ring on your finger. I know loss is hard and right now it feels as if there's a gaping hole in your heart.

My nephew is here to fill up some of the emptiness I feel inside. But who do you have? Because I know very well that the people already in our lives cannot fill that void.

One day, we will meet again and I will hold you close, just like I did in the hospital. You told me you liked it when I held you close. So right now, close your eyes and imagine my arms around you.

I'm warm to the touch, just as you commented on. That's me sending you warmth and love and kisses. On your forehead and your lips.

Especially on your lips.

Your stranger, your husband,

Willem.

💌 💌 💌