A Letter Before Arrival — The Price of Peace
Until she turned thirty-five, Laura considered herself truly happy. She had a loving husband, Edward, a son named Jack, and a daughter, Emily—a modest but solid family. Everything changed when Edward was laid off from the factory. Unable to find work in their town, he decided to go to Ireland for better-paying jobs.
“Laura, the lads have offered me work. The pay’s decent,” he said one evening.
“But what about us? You there, us here. How is that a family?” she protested.
“It won’t be forever. We’ll manage. Once we’re back on our feet, things will be different.”
But different didn’t turn out as she’d hoped. Edward visited less often, growing more distant and gloomy. Then, one day, as Laura prepared for his return, she checked the postbox and found a letter. From him.
She smiled, imagining words of love and longing, sent for the day he’d come home. She tucked it into her bag, but when she opened it later, her heart shattered.
“Laura, forgive me. I couldn’t say it to your face. I’ve fallen for someone else. Our marriage was a mistake. I want a divorce. I’ll support the kids. Goodbye.”
She read it over and over, disbelief clouding her vision. Tears blurred the ink. Just then, ten-year-old Jack walked in.
“Mum, the oven’s smoking. What’s wrong?”
She jolted up, switched it off, and waved the smoke away. Forcing a smile, her chest burned with pain.
A month later, they divorced. Edward left for good. He sent money but never stepped foot in their home again. A decade on, Laura learned he’d died in a crash. She was left alone with two children and a weight of responsibility.
Years passed. Laura never remarried—she refused to bring another man into the house. Her life revolved around her children. Jack grew up, married a woman named Sarah, and moved into his old room while Laura and Emily shared the other. A grandson, Henry, was born. But neither Sarah nor Emily showed any hurry to leave. The house grew cramped and tense.
One day, Emily announced, “Mum, I’m pregnant. Me and Dave will stay with you for a bit.”
“Where?” Laura gasped. “Jack and Sarah have one room with Henry, and we’ve got the other. Where will you fit?”
“There’s the sofa in the lounge. You don’t mind, do you?”
So Laura moved to the lounge. The first night was hell. It only got worse—shouting, squabbles, endless clashes over stolen sausages, late-night noise, borrowed notebooks.
Then Laura noticed Sarah’s rounded belly.
“You’re pregnant?”
“Yeah. We’re having another.”
“And the space?”
“What, kicking us out now?” Sarah snapped.
“No one’s kicking anyone! But that’s four in one room!”
“Well, your daughter should move out—she’s got a husband!” Sarah shot back.
“So do you!” Laura snapped.
The next morning, Jack confronted her. “Mum, you upset Sarah. Are you throwing us out?”
Emily chimed in, “Tell your husband to find you a place!”
“That’s it!” Laura exploded. “Enough! All of you, move out! Jack, take Sarah and the kids. Emily, you and Dave too. I can’t do this anymore. You’ve turned my home into a madhouse, with no respect for me or each other. Out. Now.”
Her voice was steady, loud, unshaken. Even she was surprised by her resolve. But she didn’t regret it. Not for a second.
Three days later, they left. Threats followed: “You’ll never see your grandkids again,” “We’re done with you.” Laura stayed silent.
That evening, she sat in the lounge—alone. No shouting, no chaos. Just quiet.
She looked around and, for the first time in years, felt like the house was hers again. She redecorated. Bought new furniture. The next year, she went abroad for the first time in her life.
Let anyone accuse her of selfishness—she’d given her life to her children. Now, at last, she was living for herself. And rightly so.
