Opening The Box

Mary McCorvey
Jul 18, 2025
6 min read

Originally published on Mary McCorvey's Substack.

It was late afternoon, this time, when I reached in the box to discover yet another letter, this one coming later in the year, Rob and I were lovers.

There had been much conversation about being together, not being together, and what the impact had been on our families. The tensions continued to rise at our respective homes. Not arguments, not loud drama. Just quiet undercurrents of questioned love and the weight of the decisions we had to make in order to be together when we could.

For me, my marriage was almost over. After months of self-discovery and a great deal of pain, I had come to the conclusion that I could not stay with Tim and my beloved step-daughters. I had to strike out alone once again.

At the time Rob wrote this letter, I had not told him of my decision. The burden was one I wished to carry alone at that point, until I could process the maelstrom of thoughts, concerns, and actions I would have to take.

Would we find a future together? The entire situation was fraught with the depth of love we held for each other, sliced by parallel lines of existence that seemingly would never meet. I struggled and struggled, and as it turns out, he did as well.

Been thinkin’ ‘bout Mary. Talkin’ ‘bout love n such. Been goin’ on a while.

I could run to her now and sweep her into the night and head west, never look back.

What stops you? Nothing ever, ever, ever stopped you before. Why now? Why with this most important Mary?

Responsibilities, promises, commitments, all kinds of noble dispositions.

How true do you hold these convictions?

Don’t you want your family? I fear only because they need me. Doesn’t Mary need you? Yes.

So sweetly to lift Mary gently away to soar to perfect unity and join.

God, I could do it, damn it I could do it. Decisions … everything I do seems to be a decision I am faced with

I can face or turn from a decision and I turn.

Such a bitter fucking compromise to not face the decision. I’ve always, always done only what I’ve wanted.

You rest your hands softly on my shoulders Mary, as I write to you.

You sway your hips gently and caress my neck.

I long to put my hands on your cheeks and hold your face close to mine and see you, only you.

I love you Mary and perhaps that’s not enough anymore.

I have “that crazy longing that time will never tame.”

Yes when the night comes. When the morning comes I run to you Mary.

I miss you, Mary,

I love you Mary, take me with you, hold me close, love me Mary.

Yes, I am always with you and long to be with you.

I go with you tonight in my dreams … tomorrow at your side … and always and forever.

Always and forever. And here I am 35 years later, reading those words, knowing they remain as true today as he meant them then.

And, here we go.

Dear Rob,

In two day’s time I will be back on a train to New York, passing the stations we travelled by, the stops where we met, then into the city we once walked, hands tentatively brushing together with each step. I’ll look for you, of course, like I always do.

I inevitably feel you strongest at Metro Park, where you came and went on a daily basis. I see the building you worked in, envision you there on late nights, talking to me, sharing the moments of the day.

All these years I’ve looked and looked for you as I passed by, almost afraid I’d see you, and not be able to get off the train. You’ve long since been gone, the sign on the building changed, the trees in the parking lot grown old.

On my trip, I’ll see those parallel lines of the rails laid off into the distance, a visual representation of the separation in the lives we’ve lived.

But you once told me, parallel lines do meet on the horizon. Perhaps that’s what is happening now?

It’s hard to believe, but it has been four months since I opened the box of your letters. I haven’t read them all, not because if I consumed them all at once I’d be done. With these letters, I’ll never be done. Your love keeps speaking to me across the time and the miles.

I haven’t read them all because I’m savoring the experiences, one at a time. The luxury of touching what you touched, reading what you wrote. Closing my eyes and running my fingers lightly across the letters, feeling the imprint of the ball point pen as if it were braille.

How are you today, my love? I have so many questions. Do you still work, like me? Have you retired to a quiet life, or one filled with travel and adventure? What kind of grandfather are you? I try to imagine you with the young ones on your knee, with you reading a book. Or playing a game in the yard. I don’t have grandchildren, so no knee-bouncing for me.

I’ve just written a book, titled: Experience Over Expectation. It’s about how I’ve not traveled the traditional path of education, career, marriage, kids, retirement, legacy. If you could only know my story. I believe you would find it funny, and hopefully endearing.

I’m living a life of my dreams. I’ve reached back to my first love, writing. And I’m creating all manner of things from a book to a podcast to videos to speeches and above all, touching people, in all kinds of ways. Hopefully with messages that are inspirational.

Various people have spoken to me about Opening The Box. They are very curious, and have many reactions. Some of them connect with our bittersweet story. Some are judgmental, and see only two selfish people. Some care deeply for Deanna, frightened that she will find out about these writings.

For those that are judgmental, I cannot change the past, nor will I excuse the present. They cannot know because they’ve not walked in our shoes. Their views will be their views. I’m blessed to be mature enough to not care.

As for Deanna discovering Opening the Box, the chances of that happening are less than my winning a billion dollar lottery. I’ve done everything possible, except change your words or mine, to prevent that from happening.

Perhaps those who fear Deanna’s finding out are tapping into their own threads of pain: what if my husband kept these feelings all these years? That’s completely understandable. After all, we are a remarkable story that touch people in different ways.

On the bittersweet side, a reader asked me, how will you ever reconcile what you could have had, with what you lived? And what he lived? What if you were meant to be together and just didn’t decide to take the step?

My answer is there is no reconciliation, no responses to a dream not lived, no regrets for decisions not made. We made the right decisions for us. We did live the dream all these years, in our hearts. And we continue to, today. The love I feel for you, Rob, and what you feel for me, is a gift. Not a burden, not a stone we can’t put down. There is no need.

I will say goodbye for now, and go off into the night, carrying the love you’ve given me.

Always,Mary

I should tell you, dear reader and listener, that next week’s issue will be the last Opening The Box.

What joy I’ve been able to share. What kindness people have shown.

The only thing I ask is to remember:

Heartbeats are finite. Possibilities are infinite.

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