**Someone Else’s Letter**
“I was sorting through some old things,” said Michael Thompson, “and I happened to find a letter in the attic.”
“I remember how often you used to write Mum letters, especially on holidays,” smiled Poppy, eyeing the new wrinkles on her father’s face.
“Yes, but this one isn’t mine. The address is odd… Little Marsh. Never heard of the place. Blimey, the stamp’s still intact too! We’ve never known anyone there, have we?”
Michael scratched his head, trying to recall how the letter came into his possession. That’s precisely why he’d turned to his daughter—and, as usual, it was the right call.
“Dad, remember when you told me you worked at the post office just after I was born? Maybe it’s from then? Because I’m dead certain we don’t know a soul in Little Marsh.”
“Hmm,” Michael stared blankly at the wall before throwing his hands up. “Oh, you daft old sod! Of course! I broke my leg back then, and then I went and lost a whole mailbag. Got a disciplinary, had to pay for the ruddy thing too. Eighty quid, clear as day.”
“Blimey. So… someone never got their letter?” Poppy leaned in, intrigued.
“Someone who?” Michael frowned.
“Well, the person it was addressed to, obviously.”
“Oh—her! It was for a woman,” Michael chuckled.
They fell silent. Michael was lost in memories of his post office days—some of the toughest of his life—while Poppy burned with curiosity about the letter’s contents. She even tried shining her phone torch through the envelope, but the thick paper hid every word. Then she broke the quiet.
“Should we take it to them?”
“Where to now?” Michael scoffed. “Twenty years on? Whole place’s probably a ghost town. Or they’ve kicked the bucket. Happens, doesn’t it?”
“But what if? Come on, let’s try. It’s proper intriguing. You might’ve changed someone’s life!” Gently, she plucked the envelope from his hands. “I’ll drive. We’ll go first thing tomorrow.”
Little Marsh greeted them with the quiet hum of a summer morning. Forty miles later, Poppy steered through the village’s narrow lanes, squinting at the street signs. Michael peered out, half-memorising the route.
“Here we are—number thirty-five.” Poppy pulled up beside a neat wooden fence with a latched gate.
A woman in her sixties answered their knock—kind eyes crinkled with laugh lines, silver streaking her dark hair. She studied them, puzzled.
“Hello!” Poppy said brightly. “This’ll sound bonkers, but twenty years ago, a letter meant for you ended up with us. We found it and thought we ought to return it.”
The woman gave them a wary once-over.
“What letter?”
Poppy produced the yellowed envelope and read:
“To Margaret Elizabeth Whitmore.”
“That’s me,” the woman said slowly. “But I don’t recall expecting a letter back then. Who’s it from?”
She reached for the envelope, scanning the handwriting. It meant nothing to her.
“Come in,” Margaret said abruptly, stepping aside. “This isn’t a doorstep sort of chat.”
Inside, the house was tidy as a pin—as if she’d been waiting for visitors. Ten minutes later, they sat around a small table. Margaret set down a teapot and cups.
“Help yourselves.”
With a pocketknife, she slit the envelope open. Poppy hesitated.
“Would you like privacy?”
“You’re curious too,” Margaret smiled weakly. “Honestly? I’d rather not read this alone.”
Michael slurped his tea loudly. Poppy shot him a look, but Margaret didn’t notice. As she unfolded the letter, her face drained of colour. The page slipped from her fingers.
Poppy leapt up. “Water! Dad, fan her!” She dashed to the kitchen, heart pounding. What on earth was in that letter?
When she returned, Margaret was clutching the letter to her chest, colour creeping back into her cheeks.
“Here,” Poppy handed her the glass.
“Ta,” Margaret took a sip. “Sorry for the scare. I’m alright.”
“Don’t be daft—we’re the ones who sprung this on you,” Michael said guiltily, still waving a tea towel like a makeshift fan.
“You’ve no idea what you’ve just done,” Margaret murmured.
Poppy gaped at her dad, but he shrugged—just as clueless.
“You changed my whole life,” Margaret said, eyes locked on Michael. A storm of emotions flickered across her face—pain, resignation.
“This letter… It’s from my husband’s mistress.” The words came haltingly. Poppy’s jaw dropped. “Fancy that. An affair I never knew about.”
“You… suspected nothing?” Poppy whispered.
“No. Well—not knew, but felt. Twenty years ago, Robert and I had a nasty row. I avoided him for months, certain he was lying. But it wasn’t like now—no texts, no mobiles. He’d stand at the garden gate begging to talk. Then I found out I was four months gone. Told him, and… he changed overnight. Never gave me cause to doubt him again. Now I understand why.”
Her voice trembled—not with tears, but the weight of betrayal.
“Know the cruelest bit?” Margaret eyed them. “I’ll never look that cheating sod in the eye again.”
“Why’s that?” Poppy asked innocently. Michael nudged her knee.
“He’s been dead two years.”
Silence. What could anyone say?
Margaret spoke of their marriage—long, happy. Two daughters, now mothers themselves. Yet twenty years ago, another woman had loved Robert, dreamed of a life with him.
Poppy, at twenty-five, felt like she’d stumbled into a telly drama.
“Feels like this isn’t real,” Margaret whispered, gazing at the hydrangeas outside.
Michael gently took the letter. The frail paper nearly crumbled. No wonder Poppy hadn’t seen through the envelope.
“What if you’d known sooner?” he ventured.
“Dunno,” Margaret sighed. “Doubt I’d have stayed. Couldn’t have faked happiness, knowing. But… we had real love. Fights, laughs, Christmases, flu. Lived it all side by side. And I’d not trade a second.”
His eyes flicked to the page before he set it down. Bold, underscored words leapt out:
*”We’re meant to be. Forgive her, Margaret—but he’ll only be happy with me.”*
“Well. Turns out they weren’t,” Michael said. At Margaret’s puzzled look, he read the line aloud. “See? I never delivered it—broke my leg. So fate, or whoever’s upstairs, made sure you and Robert got your happy ending. Sorry for peeking.”
“Fate,” Margaret echoed, testing the word. “Maybe you’re right, Michael.”
His nod was met with weary understanding. The truth hurt, but it painted their years together in clearer light—real, loving, untainted by secrets.
Margaret stood, took the letter, and walked to the fireplace. The paper caught quickly, flames swallowing the other woman’s words.
*”Let the past stay buried,”* she murmured, watching the ashes curl. For the first time in years, her shoulders felt lighter.
She turned back, calm.
“Fancy hearing more about Robert? And you can tell me about yourselves. Got time for a proper chinwag?”
