**The Lost Letter**
“I was sorting through some old things the other day,” said Michael Thompson, “and I found a letter up in the attic.”
“I remember how often you used to write to Mum—especially on holidays,” smiled Emily, noticing the new wrinkles on her father’s face.
“Well, this one isn’t mine. The address is odd… some village called Riverfield. Even the stamp’s intact. But we’ve never known a soul there!”
Michael scratched his head, trying to recall where the letter had come from. That’s exactly why he’d turned to his daughter. And he’d made the right choice.
“Dad, remember how you told me you worked at the post office right after I was born? Maybe it’s from then. We really don’t know anyone in Riverfield—I’m sure of that.”
“Hmm,” Michael stared at the wall, then suddenly threw his hands up. “What an old fool I am! You’re right. That was when I broke my leg, then lost the mailbag. Got a reprimand too—had to pay for the whole thing. Eighty quid, I remember.”
“Bloody hell. So… the person never got their letter?” Emily asked.
“Who—what person?” Michael frowned.
“The one it was meant for.”
“Oh! No, it was a woman,” Michael smiled faintly.
Father and daughter fell silent. Each lost in thought—Michael recalling those hard days at the post office, Emily wondering what the letter could say. She even held it up to a torch, but the thick paper hid the words. Then she broke the quiet.
“Maybe we should take it to her?”
“Where, now?” Michael snapped back into the conversation. “They’ve probably all moved on. Twenty years—people leave. Die.”
“But what if? Come on, let’s try. It’s interesting. You might’ve changed someone’s whole life!” Emily gently tugged the envelope from his grasp. “I’ll drive. We’ll go first thing tomorrow!”
Morning in Riverfield was peaceful. The forty-mile drive through summer countryside left them both quiet, lost in the beauty of it.
The village lanes were unfamiliar, but modern signs guided them. Emily watched the street names while Michael took in the scenery.
“This is it—Number 35,” Emily slowed by a neat wooden fence with a carved gate.
A woman in her sixties stepped out—kind lines by her eyes, silver streaking dark hair. She studied them, searching for recognition.
“Hello!” Emily spoke up. “This is… a bit odd. Twenty years ago, a letter meant for you ended up with us. We’ve just found it, so we thought we’d return it.”
The woman’s sharp gaze flicked between them, wary.
“What letter?”
Emily pulled out the yellowed envelope and read:
“To Margaret Elizabeth Harris.”
“Yes, that’s me,” the woman said slowly. “But I don’t recall waiting for any letter—certainly not twenty years ago. Who’s it from?”
She took the envelope, scanning the sender’s name—unknown.
“Come inside,” Margaret stepped back, holding the gate open. “This isn’t a doorstep conversation.”
Exchanging glances, Michael and Emily followed. The garden was immaculate, as if she’d spent a lifetime keeping it ready.
Ten minutes later, tea steamed in delicate china cups at the kitchen table.
Margaret unfolded a pocketknife, carefully slitting the envelope. Emily hesitated.
“Should we… give you privacy?”
“You’re curious too,” Margaret smiled weakly. “And honestly, I’d rather not read this alone.”
Michael slurped his tea loudly. Emily shot him a look, but Margaret didn’t seem to notice. Her hands trembled as she unfolded the sheet—then she went pale, sinking into the chair. The letter slipped to her lap.
Emily jumped up, unsure what to do. She dashed to the kitchen for water, heart pounding.
Margaret had pressed the letter to her chest by the time Emily returned with a glass. Colour was creeping back into her face.
“Here,” Emily whispered.
“Thank you,” Margaret took a sip. “Forgive me—I’m fine now.”
“*We’re* the ones who should apologise—” Michael mumbled, awkwardly fanning her with a tea towel.
“You’ve no idea what you’ve done,” Margaret looked straight at him.
Emily stared at her dad, silently demanding an explanation. He only shrugged—clueless.
“You changed my entire life.”
Margaret’s eyes held a storm—pain, resignation.
“This is from… my husband’s mistress.” Emily’s jaw dropped. “They’d been having an affair. I never knew.”
“You had no idea?” Emily breathed.
“No. Well—I suspected. Twenty years ago, David and I fought terribly. I avoided him for months. But back then, no phones, no texts. He’d beg at the door, pleading to talk. Then… I found out I was four months pregnant. When I told him—he changed. Became devoted. Never gave me reason to doubt again. Now I understand why.”
Her voice wavered—not with tears, but bitter clarity.
“D’you know the worst part?” Margaret looked at them. “I’ll never get to look him in the eye and—”
“Why not?” Emily blurted. Michael nudged her knee.
Silence.
“David’s been gone two years.”
Michael and Emily exchanged glances. What could they possibly say?
Margaret spoke of their marriage—long, happy. Two daughters, now mothers themselves. But imagine—twenty years ago, another woman had loved David, dreamed of a life with him.
Emily, at twenty-five, could scarcely believe it. Things like this only happened in soap operas.
“It doesn’t feel real,” Margaret murmured, gazing at the garden.
Michael gently took the letter. The paper was tissue-thin with age. No wonder Emily’s torch hadn’t helped.
“What if you’d known sooner?” he asked carefully.
“I don’t know,” Margaret sighed. “I might’ve left him. Never had our family. But… we lived truthfully. Fights, joys, sickness—everything, side by side. And I’m grateful for every minute.”
Michael glimpsed the writing—large, pencil-darkened words jumping out:
*”We’re meant to be. Forgive her, but he’ll only be happy with me.”*
“Guess fate had other plans,” Michael said, catching Margaret’s confusion. He read it aloud, then added, “I never delivered it—broken leg. Maybe… someone up there wanted you two to have those years. Sorry—didn’t mean to read it.”
“Fate,” Margaret tested the word. “Maybe you’re right, Michael.”
He nodded. Her eyes held it all—grief, betrayal, strange relief. As if the truth, however bitter, proved their life together had been real.
Margaret stood, took the letter, and walked to the fireplace. Her hands barely shook as she struck a match.
Flames curled the paper into glowing edges, secrets twisting to ash.
“Let the past stay past,” she whispered, dropping it into the grate. For the first time in years, her shoulders felt light.
Turning back, her face was calm.
“Would you like to hear more about David? And you can tell me about yourselves. If you’ve time?”
