**A Stranger’s Letter**
I was sorting through old things the other day when I stumbled upon a letter in the attic. It wasn’t mine—the address was odd, some place called Riversedge. Never knew a soul there. The stamp was untouched, crisp as the day it was printed.
My daughter, Emily, smiled. “I remember how you used to write to Mum all the time, especially on holidays.”
“True,” I admitted, scratching my head. “But this one’s not mine. Never heard of Riversedge in my life.”
Emily’s eyes lit up. “Dad, didn’t you work at the post office right after I was born? Maybe it got mixed up with your things somehow.”
A lightbulb went off in my mind. Blimey—she was right. I’d broken my leg back then, lost my mailbag, even got a disciplinary for it. Paid £80 out of my own pocket, clear as yesterday.
“So… the letter never got delivered?” Emily asked.
“Who—what?” I frowned.
“The person it was meant for.”
“Oh! It’s a she, actually.”
We fell quiet. Me, remembering those rough post office days, and Emily, no doubt wondering what was inside. She even held it up to the torch, but the paper was too thick.
“We should take it to her,” Emily said suddenly.
“Don’t be daft. Twenty years on? She’s probably long gone—or worse.”
“But what if she’s not? Dad, let’s try. It’s a mystery! Might’ve changed someone’s life.” She gently took the envelope. “I’ll drive. We’ll go first thing tomorrow.”
Riversedge was quiet in the morning, just the hum of countryside peace. Forty miles we drove, past rolling hills and hedgerows. The village lanes were narrow, but we found our way easily enough.
“Number thirty-five,” Emily murmured, pulling up by a neat little cottage with a wooden gate.
A woman answered—sixtyish, silver threading her dark hair, kindness in the lines of her face. She studied us, wary.
“Good morning!” Emily said brightly. “This’ll sound odd, but we’ve got a letter meant for you. Twenty years late—family mix-up.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What letter?”
Emily pulled out the yellowed envelope. “Addressed to Margaret Elizabeth Whitmore.”
A pause. “That’s me. But I don’t recall expecting any letter.” She took it, scanning the writing. Then, softer: “Come inside. This isn’t doorstep talk.”
We followed her into a spotless home—like she’d been waiting for visitors.
Ten minutes later, we were sat at her kitchen table while the kettle hissed. Margaret slit the envelope carefully with a pocketknife.
“Should we give you privacy?” Emily offered.
“You’re curious too,” Margaret said. “And truthfully, I don’t fancy reading this alone.”
I took a noisy slurp of tea. Emily shot me a look, but Margaret didn’t notice. Her hands trembled as she unfolded the page. Then—she went pale, the letter slipping to her lap.
Emily lunged up. “Water! Dad, fan her!” She dashed to the sink, glass clinking as she filled it.
By the time she returned, Margaret had clutched the letter to her chest, colour returning to her cheeks. “Sorry,” she whispered, accepting the drink. “Just… wasn’t expecting this.”
“We’re the ones who should apologise,” I muttered, still waving a tea towel like a fool.
“You’ve no idea what you’ve done,” Margaret said, eyes locked on mine.
Emily gaped, but I just shrugged—clueless.
Margaret took a shaky breath. “You’ve changed my entire life.”
Silence. Then: “It’s from my husband’s mistress.”
Emily’s mouth fell open.
“I never knew,” Margaret continued. “Well—I suspected. Twenty years ago, we had a terrible row. Avoided him for months. No mobiles then, just… silence. He’d stand at the gate, begging to talk. Then I found out I was four months gone. When I told him, he changed overnight. Never gave me reason to doubt him again. Until now.”
Her voice wavered—not with tears, but realisation.
“Know the worst part?” She looked at us. “I’ll never get to look him in the eye and call him a liar.”
A pause. “Why not?” Emily asked.
I nudged her knee. Too late.
“John’s been gone two years,” Margaret said quietly.
Emily and I exchanged glances. What could we say?
Margaret spoke of their marriage—long, happy. Two daughters, now mothers themselves. And all the while, another woman had loved John, dreamed of a life with him.
Emily, just twenty-five, looked thunderstruck. Stuff like this only happened on telly.
“Feels like it’s not real,” Margaret murmured, staring at her garden.
I gently took the letter. The paper was tissue-thin, words faded—no wonder Emily couldn’t read it through the envelope.
“What if you’d known sooner?” I asked.
Margaret sighed. “I’d have left him. Never built this life. But… we had something real. Arguments, joys, sickness—all of it, side by side. And now? I’m grateful for every minute.”
I glimpsed the letter before setting it down. One line, underlined heavily:
*”We’re meant to be together. Forgive me, Margaret, but he’ll only be happy with me.”*
“Turns out you weren’t,” I said. Margaret frowned. “The letter says ‘meant to be.’ But I never delivered it—broke my leg. Maybe fate stepped in, gave you those years.”
“Fate,” Margaret echoed, tasting the word. “Perhaps you’re right, Michael.”
Her eyes held it all—pain, grief, betrayal, but also a strange relief. Like the truth, however bitter, had finally set her free.
She stood, took the letter, and walked to the fireplace. A flick of the lighter, and the paper caught flame, curling into embers.
“Let the past stay past,” she whispered, watching it burn.
Closing the grate, she turned to us, calm now.
“Would you like to hear more about John? And you can tell me about yourselves. Plenty of time, if you’ve got it.”
*Funny, isn’t it? How one lost letter can rewrite a life. Makes you wonder what other unseen hands guide us—what mistakes turn out to be mercies.*
