**The Lost Letter**
“I was sorting through some old things,” said Michael Thompson, “and I stumbled upon a letter in the attic…”
“I remember how often you used to write to Mum, especially on holidays,” Irene smiled, noticing new wrinkles on her father’s face.
“Yes, but this one isn’t mine. The address is odd… some place called Millfield. The stamp’s intact, too. But we’ve never known anyone from Millfield!”
Michael scratched his head, trying to recall how the letter had come into his possession. That’s why he’d turned to his daughter for help. And he wasn’t wrong to.
“Dad, remember you told me you worked at the post office just after I was born? Maybe it’s from then… Because we definitely don’t know anyone in Millfield—I’m sure of that.”
“Hmm,” Michael stared blankly at the wall before throwing his hands up. “What an old fool I am! That’s it. I broke my leg back then, lost my mailbag, got a disciplinary warning, and had to pay for the whole thing. Eighty pounds, I still remember.”
“Blimey. So… the person never got their letter?” Irene asked, intrigued.
“Who—they?” Michael frowned.
“The—the recipient.”
“Oh! Well, it was a *she*,” Michael corrected with a chuckle. “A woman.”
Father and daughter fell silent. Each lost in thought: Michael recalling his gruelling postal days, one of the hardest stretches of his life, and Irene wondering what the letter could contain. She even held it up to the torchlight, but the thick paper revealed nothing. Then she broke the quiet.
“Should we deliver it?”
“Where to now?” Michael replied at once. “Twenty years on—they’ve likely moved… or passed, as often happens.”
“But what if? Come on, let’s try. It’s so… mysterious. You might’ve changed someone’s life!” Gently, she took the envelope from her father. “I’ll drive. We’ll go first thing tomorrow.”
Dawn in Millfield was hushed and still. The forty-mile drive through summer countryside left them both quietly marvelling.
The village’s narrow lanes were unfamiliar, but fresh signposts guided them. Irene, eyes fixed on street names, steered carefully while Michael studied the scenery, memorising turns.
“Here—number thirty-five,” Irene murmured, stopping at a tidy wooden fence with a carved gate.
A woman in her sixties answered their knock, silver threading her dark hair, crow’s feet framing kind eyes. She studied the strangers before her, searching for recognition.
“Good morning!” Irene spoke up. “We’ve come about… well, a very odd matter. Twenty years ago, a letter meant for you ended up with us by mistake. We’ve only just found it, and—well, we thought you should have it.”
The woman eyed them warily. “What letter?”
Irene drew out the yellowed envelope and read: “To Miss Margaret Elizabeth Whitmore.”
“Yes, that’s me,” said the woman. “But I don’t recall expecting any letter—certainly not twenty years back. Who sent it?” She reached for the envelope, scanning the address. The sender’s name meant nothing to her.
“Come inside,” Margaret said abruptly, stepping back from the gate. “This isn’t a doorstep conversation.”
Exchanging glances, Michael and Irene followed her into a spotless garden, as if she’d spent a lifetime preparing for guests.
Ten minutes later, they sat around a small table. Margaret set out tea things with brisk efficiency. “Help yourselves,” she said shortly.
Sitting across from them, she unfolded a penknife and slit the envelope. Irene offered, “Should we… give you privacy?”
“You’re curious too,” Margaret smiled thinly. “And truthfully, I’d rather not read this alone.”
Michael slurped his tea loudly. Irene shot him a look, but Margaret didn’t notice. She unfolded the page—then paled, the letter slipping to her knees as she sagged in her chair, breath shallow.
Irene leapt up, flustered. “Margaret—hold on, I’ll get water!” She darted to the kitchen, heart pounding. *What on earth was in that letter?*
Finding a glass, she filled it with trembling hands. When she returned, Margaret had pressed the letter to her chest, colour slowly returning to her face.
“Here,” Irene whispered, offering the water.
“Thank you,” Margaret took a sip. “Forgive me—I’m fine now.”
“*We’re* the ones who upset you—” Michael fanned her clumsily with a tea towel.
“You’ve no idea what you’ve done,” Margaret said, locking eyes with him.
Irene stared at her father accusingly. He shrugged, just as baffled.
Margaret continued, “You changed my entire life.” Her gaze held a storm of emotions—pain, resignation.
“This… this is from my husband’s mistress.” The words came haltingly. Irene gaped. “Imagine—an affair I never knew about.”
“You *never* suspected?” Irene breathed.
“No. Well—not *knew*, but… sensed. Twenty years ago, James and I quarrelled terribly. I avoided him for months, certain he was lying. But times were different. No mobiles, no texts. He’d beg at my doorstep to talk. Then I realised I was four months pregnant. When I told him… he changed. Never gave me reason to doubt him again. Now I understand why.”
Her voice trembled, not with tears, but the weight of betrayal.
“Know what hurts most?” Margaret looked at them squarely. “I’ll never look that man in his lying eyes again.”
“Why?” Irene asked innocently, earning a nudge from her father.
“James passed two years ago.”
Silence fell. What words could console her?
Margaret spoke of their long, happy marriage, their two daughters—now mothers themselves. But to think—twenty years ago, another woman had loved James, dreamed of a life with him…
At twenty-five, Irene had only heard such twists in telly dramas.
“This hardly feels real,” Margaret murmured, gazing at the garden.
Michael gently took the letter. The fragile page was nearly translucent with age—no wonder Irene’s torchlight hadn’t penetrated it.
“What if you’d known sooner?” he asked softly.
“I don’t know,” Margaret sighed. “I might’ve left him. Never built this life. Pretending happiness while knowing would’ve been impossible. Yet… what we had *was* real. Fights, joys, illnesses—we faced it all. And I’m glad for every moment.”
Michael’s eyes flicked to the letter before setting it down. He hadn’t meant to read it, but bold, pencilled words jumped out:
*”We’re meant to be. Forgive Margaret, but only with me will he be happy.”*
“Turns out they *weren’t* meant to be,” Michael said. At Margaret’s puzzled look, he quoted the line. “I never delivered this—broke my leg that day. So fate—or whoever’s up there—made sure you and James had your life together. Sorry for reading; didn’t mean to.”
“Fate…” Margaret repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. “Perhaps you’re right, Michael.”
He nodded. Her eyes held it all—past pain, loss, betrayal, yet also a strange relief. Now, with the truth laid bare, she could see her years with James clearly. Bitter as it was, it proved their love had been real. No secret could undo that.
Margaret stood, picking up the letter. Hands steady now, she scanned it one last time—then walked to the fireplace.
A lighter’s flame kissed the paper. Orange sparks consumed the words, secrets turning to ash.
“Let the past stay past,” she whispered, dropping the burning page into the grate. For the first time in years, the weight on her shoulders seemed to lift.
Closing the grate, she turned to Michael and Irene, calm settling over her.
“Would you like to hear more about James and me? And you can tell me about yourselves—properly. If you’ve time?”
