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Enough Said is a great romantic comedy that is a great couples watch or even a single watch. The back and forth is great between Louis-Dreyfus and Gandolfini. Highly recommend you watch. For some reason it took me a while to watch this and I regret it. 8 out 10 RIP James Gandolfini
I always thought grief was loud. Heavy sobs, dramatic hugs, endless casseroles dropped off by concerned neighbours.
But three days before Christmas, sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor of my childhood loft, surrounded by half-opened boxes and the faint scent of cedar, I discovered grief could be silent.
Specifically it came in the form of a single yellowing envelope, tucked inside my late mum’s old recipe book.
My breath stalled. Her handwriting.
To James.
Not my dad’s name.
My heart thudded.
Hands trembling, I opened it. Inside was a long letter, ink smudged in places, like she’d cried while writing it. I skimmed it, throat closing:
My darling James,
I don’t know if you ever think of me now the way I think of you. Life has pushed us apart so cruelly, but I carry you with me every day. I still laugh at your jokes in my dreams.
I miss you.
I always will.
My breath stuttered.
If we were born in another decade, maybe we’d be together. Maybe we’d have grown old side by side. But this world doesn’t belong to us. It never did.
I hope you’re happy. I hope you’ve built a beautiful life. And I hope, wherever you are, you know I loved you more than anything.
It was signed simply
Lily
My mum.
I sat very still, the page blurring before me.
She’d had a love story.
A secret one.
A life before mine, with ache and yearning and someone named James.
Someone she loved with her whole heart.
Someone who never knew.
And suddenly I wanted to give him this letter. To give him her love, finally delivered, even if years too late.
At the bottom of the page was an address.
New York.
I didn’t stop to think. Grief never lets you think.
I just packed a bag, gabbed the letter, and booked the next train.
The taxi driver whistled low as we wound into town.
“You picked a good time to visit. Christmas here is magical.”
I pressed my forehead to the cold glass. “I hope so.”
But my pulse thrummed hard.
The address led to a large blue house with a wreath of red cranberries hanging on the front door. Smoke twisted from the chimney.
I hesitated.
What if he wasn’t here?
What if he hated my mother?
What if this was pointless?
Still I knocked.
The door opened.
And instead of an older man, a young one stood there.
Tall, broad-shouldered beneath a wool jumper, curls peeking from his beanie, a face both familiar and completely startling. His eyes soft brown, framed by thick lashes widened when he saw me.
“Hi?” he said slowly. “Can I help you?”
My breath puffed white between us. “Hi I’m looking for a James Gandolfini.”
Something in his expression folded. Softened.
“My dad passed away 12 years ago.”
My heart broke. “Oh… I’m so sorry.”
He nodded once, giving a small, accepting smile. “Thank you. I’m Michael.”
Michael.
Of course.
James’s son.
I cleared my throat, suddenly mortified. “This is going to sound absolutely mad, but… my mother knew him when they were young and she had wrote him a letter. And I wanted to deliver it. She never sent it. I found it after she died and well here I am.”
Michael blinked. Shock, then empathy. He stepped aside.
“You should come in.”
I hesitated. “You don’t even know me.”
He gave a soft huff of laughter. “You came all the way here with a love letter. You’re definitely not dangerous.”
His house was warm, lived-in. Books lining every shelf. A Christmas tree sparkling in the corner, half-decorated with handmade ornaments. A dog bed in the corner.
He took my coat and guided me into the lounge, motioning toward the sofa. “Sit. You look frozen.”
“Can I get you tea?” he asked.
“Yes, please.”
While he boiled the kettle, I studied a framed photograph on the mantlepiece.
James and Michael.
Father and son.
The same smile.
The same kindness in their eyes.
I swallowed hard.
Michael returned with two mugs and handed me one, his fingers brushing mine. Warm. Solid. “You came a long way,” he murmured. “Tell me why.”
So I did.
Everything.
How Mum had died in spring.
How I’d been clearing the house, still unable to breathe without her.
How I’d found the letter by accident.
His expression changed slowly from curiosity to awe.
When I finished, he leaned back, exhaling. “That’s… a lot.”
“I know.” I laughed nervously. “You must think I’m insane.”
He shook his head. “No. I think you’re brave.”
Silence settled between us. Not awkward but comforting.
Finally, he nodded at the envelope in my lap.
“May I?”
I handed it to him with shaking fingers.
He didn’t open it just touched the paper gently, tracing the fading ink of my mother’s name.
“My dad never talked much about his early life,” he said quietly. “But sometimes, around Christmas, he’d pour a drink and stare out at the snow and whisper a woman’s name.”
My breath caught. “What name?”
Michael looked at me.
“Lily.”
My chest tightened, painfully warm. “He remembered her.”
“He did,” he whispered. “Maybe he loved her.”
And then something in his voice broke.
“I wish he’d known she still loved him too.”
My eyes burned.
“So do I.”
We spent hours talking.
About my mother.
About his father.
About how strange it is to love someone you’ve lost.
About how grief isn’t a straight line it curls and swirls like wind through mountain pines.
Michael wasn’t what I expected. He was thoughtful, quiet in a soft way, funny when he wanted to be, polite without stiffness.
"Thank you for bringing a piece of him back.”
Something warm crackled between us.
But neither of us moved.
He offered me his guest room. “You can’t travel back tonight. Roads are closing.”
“I don’t want to leave yet,” I admitted.
His smile was warm enough to melt December. “Good.”
We ordered pizza, sat cross-legged by the tree, and talked late into the night.
At one point, I laughed at something he said and his gaze softened, like the sound surprised him.
“What?” I asked.
He shook his head, cheeks flushing. “It’s just… it’s nice to hear you happy. You deserve that.”
