**The Secret of the Old Letter: Love Stronger Than the Past**
Oliver returned home from work utterly exhausted. Over the summer, he’d taken a job at a construction site—he couldn’t live off his mother forever. In a year, he’d finish university, start a proper career, and marry his beloved Emily.
“Mum, how about we go to the cottage this weekend? Relax, maybe do a bit of fishing,” he suggested dreamily, finishing his supper.
“I was just thinking the same, love,” replied Margaret, setting a cup of tea in front of him. “Figured you needed a break. Maybe we should sell the place? If no one’s using it, it’ll just fall apart. We haven’t been back since your dad passed. If it’s no use to us, the money could cover your wedding.”
“Emily’s parents have a place just outside London,” Oliver nodded. “I’m for it. Let’s sell. We’ll drive up Friday evening.”
“Bring Emily along,” Margaret added cheerfully.
Oliver had spent every summer as a boy in that cottage with his grandmother. After she died, his parents had visited on holidays, even tried their hand at gardening. But after the accident—his father’s death—his mother had abandoned the house altogether.
Friday evening found them on a stifling bus. Oliver stared out the window while Emily dozed against his shoulder. The journey wasn’t long—just forty minutes—but the summer heat made it drag. Finally, the bus shuddered to a halt at the village edge. Passengers jostled for the exit, grabbing bags and pushing past. Oliver leaped down the steps, inhaling the warm country air.
“Oh, you’re drenched, poor thing,” Emily murmured sympathetically.
“It’s fine,” he grinned. “We’ll drop our things, then head straight to the river.”
They walked through the village, ignoring the curious glances from locals. Women greeted them but didn’t pry—country manners were different. Oliver carried bags of groceries, feeling lighter already.
The cottage garden was choked with weeds and nettles. “Mind your step,” Margaret warned. Emily yelped, pressing close to Oliver. The rusted lock gave easily. Inside, the air was cool, thick with dust and memories.
“It’s like we never left,” Margaret sighed, overcome.
Oliver recognised every detail—faded photos on the walls, magazine cut-outs he’d stuck up as a boy, the short, sun-bleached curtains. Iron beds huddled under knitted blankets. In the centre, a table stood draped in worn blue oilcloth.
“It’s cosy,” Emily said. “Sure you want to sell?”
“I’ll unpack,” Margaret directed. “Oliver, fetch firewood from the shed. Emily, have a look around.”
The house came alive. Fire crackled in the hearth. Soon, tea steamed on the table alongside biscuits and sugar. Oliver hauled water from the well while Margaret set the kettle to boil. When the heat grew unbearable, they flung open the doors and windows, letting the trapped warmth escape. Oliver and Emily slipped away to swim in the river.
Night brought no rest—the old timbers groaned, protesting years of neglect. At dawn, Margaret cooked breakfast, then sent the young pair up to the attic to sort through junk while she tackled the wardrobes.
“God, the cobwebs!” Emily clutched Oliver under the low beams. Forgotten laundry sagged on lines, left behind by who knew which generation. The clutter was endless, but nothing worth keeping. They tossed down stacks of yellowed magazines, stirring up dust. Then Emily gasped—a loose sheet fluttered free.
“Oliver, come here!” she called.
“What is it?” He peered over her shoulder. “A letter?”
“Listen,” she said, and read aloud:
*”Dear Thomas, What’s happened? You promised to come back, to speak to your parents and return for me. It’s been a month without word. I’m sick with worry. I meant to tell you in person, but perhaps this will hurry you—I’m expecting a baby. If my mother were alive, she’d know what to do. But my aunt… I doubt she’ll be pleased when she notices. Thomas, please come…”*
The letter spoke of love, longing, and betrayal. It was signed *Charlotte*.
“What’s the fuss? Just an old letter,” Oliver shrugged.
“You don’t get it,” Emily exhaled. “This isn’t just any letter. Your name is Oliver Thomas Davies, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he nodded, uncomprehending.
“And this is addressed to *Thomas*. See now?” Her voice tightened.
“So what? Maybe Mum knows,” Oliver mused. “I’ll ask her.”
“Wait!” Emily caught his arm. “This was written by Charlotte—not your mother. Why was it hidden in an old magazine? Why keep it?”
“Christ, you’re a regular detective,” Oliver smirked. “What now? How do we find out who wrote it?”
“Shame your gran’s gone,” Emily said. “She’d have known. Are there any older folks left in the village?”
“Dunno. Let’s ask. Mum!” he called, swinging the door open.
“What?” Margaret sneezed, dust swirling around her.
Stacks of linens lay piled on the bed. “Any old-timers still around?” Oliver asked.
“Probably old Mrs. Wilkins,” Margaret said, eyes narrowing. “Why?”
“Just curious about family history. Where does she live?”
“Last house at the end of the lane. Distant relation to your gran. Where are you off to?”
“The river!” Oliver lied, steering Emily outside.
The cottage sagged under ivy, its garden wild. “This is it,” Oliver said.
“Looks deserted,” Emily muttered.
The door creaked open. A white-haired woman peered out. “Can I help you?”
“Mrs. Wilkins?” Oliver stepped closer. “Oliver Davies. Thomas and Margaret’s son.”
The old woman squinted, thinking. “Come in. Kettle’s on.”
The cramped cottage was spotless. “Thought it’d be dusty?” she chuckled. “Still manage, just about. Out with it—what brings you?”
Emily handed her the letter. “We found this.” She read it aloud. Oliver listened, unease coiling in his gut.
Mrs. Wilkins sighed. “Margaret’s not with you. Means you haven’t told her. Good.”
She was silent so long Oliver nearly spoke—then she began: “Margaret was a beauty. Lads trailed after her. But she only had eyes for your dad. He went off to the army; she waited. I asked once, ‘Does Thomas write?’ She’d laugh: ‘Where’s he going?’ When he came back, they married within the month—whole village celebrated.”
She paused, studying Emily. “You’re a pretty pair. Like seeing them again.”
“After the wedding, they moved to the city. Margaret worked as an accountant; Thomas studied nights. Weekends, they visited. I remember—autumn, it was. His mother sat knitting by the window, waiting. Then she saw a girl, heavily pregnant, struggling up the lane. Knew at once—she was Thomas’s.
“Ran out, told her: ‘Thomas isn’t here. He’s married now—his wife’s expecting. Go away.’ The girl said she’d nowhere left. His mother, strict as she was, took pity. Brought her to me, said to call her my cousin. The girl went into labour right here. Ambulance took her and the baby—never saw her again. We told the village she was my kin. Thomas confessed later—never thought Margaret would wait. Made promises, then forgot them when he saw her again. Next spring, Margaret had you.”
Mrs. Wilkins fell silent. “Margaret still doesn’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.”
“D’you love her?” She nodded at Emily.
“More than anything,” Oliver said.
“And the letter?” Emily pressed.
“His mother read it but never gave it to him—he was married by then. Don’t know why she kept it.”
“Thank you,” Emily said, standing. “We should go.”
“Need wood chopped? Water fetched?” Oliver offered.
“No, love. I’ll manage. Tell Margaret to visit. Might be the last time.”
“So your dad abandoned Charlotte,” Emily mused as they walked.
“Probably married someone else by now,” Oliver said lightly.
Emily stopped. “What?”
She stared at him like a stranger. “Doesn’t any of this bother you?”
“Course it does, but it’s ancient history. Mrs. Wilkins could’ve misremembered.”
Emily whispered, “My mother’s name is Charlotte.”
“And? Common name,” Oliver scoffed. “Wait—you think… No, that’s mad.”
Emily said nothing.
“You’re saying we’re *siblings*? The odds are—”
“And if my mum *is* that Charlotte? What if she married later…”
“Emily, *listen* to yourself!” Oliver gripped her shoulders. “I love you. Even if this were true, I couldn’t see you as my sister. Could you stop loving meAnd so, beneath the weight of secrets and the pull of love, they chose to leave the past buried—forever.
