The air was still, not a whisper of wind, no rustle of leaves, no birdsong—as if nature itself had frozen in eternal silence. The mourners stood motionless around the open coffin and the gaping grave beside it. Emily clung to her father’s arm. He stood there, hunched and bewildered, his gaze fixed on her mother’s face.
Nearby stood her parents’ old friends: Margaret and her husband, Vincent. Emily had known them since childhood, always calling them by their first names. Margaret dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, while Vincent stared past the coffin into the distance. Across from them stood three of Mum’s colleagues, noses red, eyes swollen from tears. A handful of strangers too—people Emily had never met, yet here they were. If they had come, they must have known her.
No one else approached now, no more goodbyes, no whispered condolences. They had all said their farewells at the funeral home, where the service had been held. Now they simply waited for it to end.
Emily caught the gaze of one of the gravediggers. The older one, likely in charge, raised his eyebrows as if to ask, *Ready?* She gave a slight nod. It was time. The men lifted the coffin lid resting against a tree and stepped forward.
“Everyone said their goodbyes? We’re closing it,” the gravedigger said.
Then a quiet but commanding voice cut through the silence.
“Wait.”
Every head turned. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a long black coat and a wide-brimmed hat stepped forward. The workers hesitated, the lid still in their hands. The stranger placed two white roses inside and rested his palm over Mum’s folded hands, as if trying to warm them. He stood like that for minutes while the others watched, wondering who he was. One of the gravediggers coughed pointedly. The man withdrew his hand and stepped back. The workers secured the lid, screwed it down, and lowered the coffin into the earth. Emily was the first to throw a handful of soil.
As the men shoveled dirt into the grave, she searched for the stranger, but he had vanished. Once the cross and wreaths were placed over the fresh mound, the mourners drifted toward the cemetery gates. Emily and her father lingered a little longer.
“Dad, let’s go,” she said softly, and he let her lead him away.
Her mind churned all the way home. Who was he? He had appeared silently, left just as quietly. His face had been hidden beneath his hat—all she’d seen was a clean-shaven chin and, maybe, glasses.
The wake was held in a café near their house. Emily couldn’t swallow a bite. She was exhausted, desperate for the day to end. Finally, people began leaving. She and her father were the last to go. She held his arm with one hand, her mother’s framed portrait clutched to her chest with the other—a duplicate of the one left at the grave.
“You alright?” she asked.
Her father only nodded.
“Dad… who was that man at the graveside?”
“How should I know?”
She caught the edge in his voice. They walked the rest of the way in silence. The flat still smelled of medicine and sickness, despite the windows being left open. Her father collapsed onto the sofa, eyes closed. Emily draped a blanket over him and sat beside him.
Her gaze drifted to the bedroom door—Mum’s room. *”At peace now,”* she repeated to herself, the same words everyone had murmured at the funeral. Peace for Mum, after the relentless agony of illness. Peace for Emily, after months of dread and waiting. Peace for Dad, after helplessly watching the woman he loved waste away.
Tears welled up. She slipped into the kitchen, buried her face in her hands, and wept silently.
Weeks passed. The sharpest pain dulled. Emily cleared out the traces of illness from Mum’s room. She returned to university but felt hollow, adrift.
Her father barely spoke, shuffling around like an old man. The sound of his slippers scraping the floor grated on her. He made no effort to hide his grief—as if hers wasn’t just as deep. She had lost her mother. Now the household, *him*, everything fell on her shoulders.
“Dad, what should we do with Mum’s clothes? They won’t fit me,” she asked once, just to make him talk.
“I don’t know. Give them away.”
Easy to say. But to whom? That weekend, she sorted through them. The newer things she kept aside; she’d figure it out later. The worn-out pieces went into a sack for the charity bin. No sadness—just discomfort.
Their shoe sizes didn’t match either. She left the old pairs by the bins, hoping someone might need them. In one box, she found pristine white pumps. She couldn’t bring herself to toss them. When she tried them on, they were too big. As she packed them away, she noticed three yellowed envelopes at the bottom—all postmarked decades ago. Two were addressed to Mum, a month apart. The third, two years later. None bore a return address.
Why had Mum hidden them here? Why keep them at all? Reading someone else’s letters was wrong… but Mum was gone. Maybe the sender was too. Emily kept glancing at them as she worked.
She couldn’t rest until she knew. If there had been a real secret, Mum wouldn’t have left them here. Maybe she *wanted* them found. They weren’t even well-hidden—just tucked under shoes she’d never wear again. Had Mum forgotten? If the box had held only battered flats, Emily would’ve tossed it without a second thought—letters and all.
She concluded Mum *meant* for her to find them. She couldn’t have known her daughter’s feet would be smaller. Emily set aside her doubts and opened the first letter.
*…You’re my happiness. I’ve barely left, and I miss you already, restless without you… Thank you for being in my life. I think of you constantly. I love you…*
Clear enough. A lovesick man, parted from the woman he adored.
The second letter:
*…I feared this, yet saw it coming. Thank you for telling me. What will you do? You know I’m married—I never hid that. I have two children… I won’t leave them. I can’t. You’re young, beautiful—your whole life ahead. You won’t be alone; you’ll marry. But it’s your choice… If you keep the baby, let me know. I’ll send money. Don’t be proud—don’t refuse. It’s the least I can do. Forgive me…*
More words of love, regret over time lost, how late they’d met.
Finally, the third:
*…I’m to blame, I know. But what now? You named her Emily? I’m leaving. Don’t know when I’ll return—if ever… Live! You’re free! Don’t wait. Don’t look back. It’s better this way. Promise you’ll keep our secret. Burn these. Thank you for being in my life…*
No signatures, no names—just *Emily* mentioned once. So Dad wasn’t her real father. There was someone else. Mum had loved him first, had *her* with him. Straight out of a spy novel. Whoever he was, he mattered—why else hide his identity? The last letter bore a small checkmark, like a bird in flight. Had he meant it as a signature? Why hadn’t Mum burned them? Couldn’t bring herself to? Forgotten?
*What do I do with this? Without these letters, I’d never have known. But so what? Dad’s still my father. He worried over me, sat by my bed when I was ill, pushed me on swings, scolded me when he caught me smoking… That other man? A stranger. Left Mum, never looked back.*
She hid the letters beneath her underwear. Dad would never rummage there.
Her parents had rarely argued. She’d never once doubted he was her father. He’d loved Mum. Loved *her*. Grieved her deeply. Mum had been beautiful before the illness. Emily looked nothing like her. Nothing like Dad either. How had she never noticed?
She decided never to tell him, never to ask. He had no one but her. If she took that away, what would he have left?
She remembered the man at the funeral. *He could’ve come to say goodbye. So he did love her? But hid his face. Some important figure? So many secrets. Oh, Mum, you dark horse.*
By her final year at university, a renowned magazine celebrated its 25th anniversary with a gala. Their journalism department received a handful of invitations.
One went to Daniel, her boyfriend—a promising writer already published in newspapers. He waved the ticket at her.
“Coming?”
“Try stopping me!”
The grand restaurant buzzed with celebrities. Emily’s eyes sparkled with excitement. Waiters wove through the crowd with champagne flutes. Speeches and toasts echoed around them.
A banner bore the magazine’s logo—matching the ticket’s design: an openEmily caught her own reflection in the dark window, realizing some secrets were meant to stay buried, like the letters now tucked away in the back of her mind, undisturbed, just as her mother had silently intended.
