Dear Jack,
I can't believe it's really you. Alive? All this time? It doesn't make any sense. Jack, I nearly had a heart attack when I got your letter. I nearly fainted. My God. You're alive.
There are not sufficient words in the English dictionary to express how unbelievably happy and relieved I am that you are alive. But there was something in your letter that was incorrect. You said that when I was…dead…I had died because of you. That's not true! You saved me! In every possible way! You saved me from Cal, from making the two biggest mistakes of my life (marriage and suicide), multiple times from dying during the sinking, and from never finding true love. Jack, I love you too. I have thought of you every day these past 10 years. Every single day. And I will always love you.
Before I go on, there's something I have to tell you. I'm so sorry, Jack. I'm married. And even though you wouldn't let me, I would leave him for you. But I can't. I have children. Margaret is almost 8 and James is 4. My husband's name is Tom. Tom Calvert. We've been married more than 8 years. I'm not saying this to pacify you. I don't love him nearly as much as I loved…love you. Yes, I love him. But I'm not in love with him.
Tom loves our kids. The kids that should be yours. He's crazy about them. I can't take them away from him and I can't leave them either.
When I got your letter, I spent they day cursing me, God, Tom, and fate for tearing us apart. We could have had such as life together. I don't know how I'm going to go on with the rest of my life knowing that the option of true crazy love is within my grasp.
This must hurt you so much. I'm so, so, sorry, Jack.
My life is pretty good, I suppose. We live in a 3 bedroom house. Modest but very nice. Tom is a writer. He has written two books and works for the newspaper. Margaret is so smart. James is too, though it's hard for a 4 year old to show his brilliance. But I am rather unhappy. Not because Tom treats me badly. It's because I miss you. I know what you mean. I feel empty inside, too. Like there's a big black hole right where my heart should be.
I've never spoken of you to my husband. He doesn't even know I was on Titanic. He doesn't know about Cal, or mother, or that I was rich. And he doesn't know about you. I couldn't speak of you. Not to anyone. It hurt too much. Every time I said your name, I'd burst into tears. I haven't cried for you in a while, either. But now, as I write this letter, tears stream down my face. I miss you so much! And I love you forever. Please write back to me. I'm so sorry that we can't be together.
Love,
Rose.