Dear Engineer101:

That sounds like such a complex moment—and I can understand why you’re feeling torn. Seeing someone from your past, especially someone you once cared about deeply, can stir up unexpected emotions.

You did what felt right in the moment. There’s no perfect script for something like that. Saying hello might have brought clarity—or it might have made things more complicated. And choosing not to approach her doesn’t mean you didn’t care. It might’ve been your way of honoring both your past and your present.

Even just noticing how that moment made you feel—how a past connection can still echo after decades—is powerful. You’re not alone in that. A lot of people have felt something like this, even if they never say so out loud.

If you’re open to it, I’d be curious—what do you think you hoped to feel if you had said hello?

Anita

Dear Engineer:

You’re very welcome—and thank you for your kind words. What stands out most is the care you’re showing now, even decades later. That speaks volumes about your character and your capacity for reflection.

The mix of emotions you describe makes complete sense: your wish to be polite, the guilt that’s lingered over time, your loyalty to your wife, and the pull of nostalgia. You were navigating a powerful crossroads between past and present—and I think your choice not to approach her was, in its own quiet way, an act of respect for everyone involved.

The guilt you carry about how things ended is understandable. You were young, newly in love, and trying to protect something fragile and precious. But that doesn’t mean the silence that followed wasn’t painful for her. It likely was. The fact that she reached out and never received a response probably left her with questions she had to answer alone. That’s hard—and your willingness to acknowledge it now is a kind of belated grace.

Reaching out after so many years, uninvited, might have reopened old wounds in both of you rather than providing resolution—something it seems you intuitively grasped in that moment. Sometimes, an apology offered too late doesn’t bring healing; it can stir up hurt the other person has long since laid to rest.

So while that door may have quietly closed long ago, your instinct not to disturb it was, in my view, a gentle and thoughtful one. That doesn’t make the feelings less complex—but you honored the life you’ve built, and in a way, you honored hers, too.

Your reflections touch something universal—the desire, as more of our lives stretch behind us, to understand the impact we’ve had and leave no loose threads behind. That’s not weakness—it’s a deep and very human kind of care.

I’m truly glad you reached out.

Warmly, Anita

Dear Gerard:

Thank you so much for your generous words—they mean more than you know. I’m truly touched by how thoughtfully you engage with these reflections. Your openness, your willingness to examine the past with both grace and honesty—it speaks of someone who continues to grow, even in the quieter chapters of life.

That moment you described—seeing your daughter in pain and suddenly feeling the echo of what your old girlfriend may have felt—was striking. I can only imagine how deeply that realization moved through you. And yet, as you beautifully said, it’s the daily reflection that gradually lets the full story come into view.

No one lives a neat life. We all carry moments where we tried, stumbled, misunderstood, or were simply swept up in forces larger than ourselves. What matters isn’t tidiness—it’s the intention to do our best, to not harm where we can help, and to keep learning as we move.

And regarding your role as a provider—please don’t diminish what you gave. You stepped into a traditional model, one that so many families have relied on for stability and care. The fact that your wife could create that warm home for your children was made possible, in part, by your long hours and sacrifices. That doesn’t mean your daughter’s feelings aren’t valid—but it also doesn’t mean you failed. Her memories can hold pain and love together. And so can yours.

What I see in you is a man who has reflected deeply, loved steadfastly, and taken responsibility with quiet dignity. That’s not something that fades—it deepens, and I’m honored to be part of your reflections.

Warmly, Anita