**The Last Letter**
I never knew my father. When I grew older and asked Mum about him, she just replied, “Aren’t you happy with just me?”
Mum loved me, though she wasn’t one for spoiling. How could she not adore a quiet, wide-eyed girl like me? I never caused trouble, never skipped school, and always did as she asked.
I was plain—nothing remarkable. Not everyone can be a beauty, after all. No grown-up ever called me sweet or charming. “She looks just like her mother,” they’d say instead.
Mum didn’t wear perfume, never bothered with lipstick, and flats were her daily choice. “Heels? After running around the factory all day, my feet ache enough as it is,” she’d say. She worked shifts in a textile mill, where the constant racket of the looms made her shout just to be heard.
After my first year of secondary school, Mum sent me off to the countryside for the summer, to stay with her old friend, Auntie Joan. I suspected she might’ve had a love interest—didn’t want me in the way.
“How did you and Mum meet?” I asked Auntie Joan one evening. “She’s a city girl, and you’ve always lived here.”
“Oh, love, your mum was a country lass too. We were thick as thieves from the cradle. She only moved to the city later, got a job at the mill. Didn’t she ever tell you?” Auntie Joan sighed. “I stayed, married young, but God never blessed us with children. My husband went off for work and never came back. So here I am, alone. At least your mum had you. Not much for decent men around here anymore—just drinkers.”
“And my father?” I dared to ask. “Do you know anything about him?”
“Of course I do. That mill was full of women—no time for romance after shift. But your mum got lucky—a foreman’s flat, thanks to her hard work. Then one day they hired a mechanic. Not much to look at, but in a place like that, any man stood out. No idea how it happened, but she fell pregnant by him. Just in time, too—she wasn’t getting any younger.”
Mum was no beauty; she never had suitors lining up. When she found out it was a girl, she was relieved. “Easier to raise a daughter alone,” Auntie Joan said. “Had you for herself, she did.”
Talking to Auntie Joan was easy—unlike with Mum. She taught me all sorts around the house. What else was there to do in the village? A few kids came for the summer, but they were all much younger.
Then, at the end of July, a boy arrived next door. The moment I saw him, my heart fluttered. He helped his granddad in the garden, hauled water from the river—and I watched him from the window.
One day, spotting him heading for the river, I grabbed a towel and rushed out, only realising halfway that I’d forgotten my swimsuit. Too late to turn back. I sat on the grassy bank, watching him dive and shake the water from his hair. He noticed me.
“Just sitting there? It’s warm—come in!” he called.
I flushed, ready to leave, when he waded out and handed me a water lily, damp and smelling of the river.
In return, I gave him my towel. We talked. His name was William. Sent here while his parents divorced, dividing their things.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked.
“Helping Auntie Joan. Why?” My pulse raced—I’d never spoken to a boy like this.
“Fancy coming mushroom picking? Grandad’s got a bad leg.”
“Yes,” I said, blushing.
“Early, though—while the dew’s still fresh. I’ll whistle when it’s time.”
We walked back together. He flicked at nettles with a stick; I carried the damp towel over my shoulder, imagining his arm around me.
I woke before dawn, checking the clock every few minutes, willing the hands to move.
“What’s got you fidgeting?” Auntie Joan yawned.
“Going mushroom picking with William.”
She grumbled but dug out wellies and a set of oversized clothes.
“I won’t wear this—I’ll look ridiculous!”
“Put them on, silly girl. Snakes, mosquitoes, ticks—and tie your hair up!”
Reluctantly, I did. One glance in the mirror horrified me—I looked like a scarecrow. Then the whistle came. No time to change. William approved of my outfit with a grin; he was dressed the same.
In the woods, he pointed out mushrooms—edible ones, poisonous ones. Soon, I was spotting them myself.
“Well done,” Auntie Joan said when we returned with a full basket. “Soup tonight, and I’ll dry the rest for winter.”
Another whistle.
“Go on, then. Bet your young man’s calling you for a swim.”
Cheeks burning, I fetched my swimsuit.
The whole month passed like that—mushroom picking, swimming, trips to the village shop. I’d fallen for him the moment we met. His touch sent shivers through me. Nights were spent dreaming of him, mornings racing toward the moment I’d see him again.
August vanished. Mum arrived.
“What’ve you been feeding her, Joan? She’s filled out!” Mum eyed my new glow suspiciously.
“Country air puts roses in cheeks,” Auntie Joan smiled. “Look at all these mushrooms she picked. With a friend,” she added.
“Mushroom picking with boys? I expected better of you, Joan.” Mum was furious. “Pack up—we leave tomorrow.”
“It’s too soon—” I nearly wept.
“School clothes, books—pack.”
I ran to the garden, found William.
“Your mum’s here?” he guessed.
I choked back tears.
“Give me your address. I’ll write,” he said.
I dashed inside, tore a page from a notebook, then remembered—no address. Back for a pen, I overheard Mum whispering behind the stove:
“She’s grown now—what if he takes a fancy? He’s not blood…”
I fled, handing William the scribbled address.
“Eleanor! Early start tomorrow!” Mum’s voice boomed.
“Come out at dusk,” William whispered before leaving.
I sat rigid all evening, straining for his whistle. When Auntie Joan folded the bedding, I stood.
“Where to?” Mum demanded.
“Let her say goodbye,” Auntie Joan interceded.
“You’ve spoiled her—”
I rushed out. William waited, leading me behind the raspberry bushes. Then he kissed me.
“Eleanor! Home!”
“Go. If I don’t oversleep, I’ll see you off,” he promised.
Morning came too soon. Mist clung to the river, dew glittered underfoot. My heart ached to leave. William never appeared—must’ve slept in.
Back in London, I checked the postbox daily. Then my key vanished.
“Must’ve fallen off your ring,” Mum said.
Every day, I asked: “Any letters?”
“Give it up. He’s forgotten you.”
I didn’t believe her. Mobile phones were still rare—Mum called them frivolous. Next summer, she refused to let me return, instead getting me a shop job. “Extra money never hurts.”
After school, I studied economics—the first in our family to attend university. Mum swelled with pride. “A desk job—better than breaking your back in a factory.”
No letters came. I graduated, landed a corporate job. The mill closed; Mum finally retired, only to fall ill.
“Soon you’ll be alone. My friend’s son is divorced—coming for lunch Saturday. Give him a chance.”
I refused. For once, I disobeyed.
“Who do you expect—Prince Charming? You’re naive. Promise no one moves into this flat—I worked my fingers to the bone for it.”
Mum suffered another year before passing.
Alone, I sorted her things one weekend. In a shoebox, I found an envelope—William’s handwriting. My hands shook as I unfolded it.
*Eleanor,
You never wrote back. I’ll stop now. Hope life treats you kindly…*
I gasped. So that’s where the postbox key went. Mum had stolen his letters.
“How could you?” I sobbed.
The postmark: eight years ago.
He hadn’t forgotten me. But too much time had passed—he’d be married, with children.
I tore the flat apart—no more letters. Mum must’ve forgotten this one.
I confessed to a coworker.
“You waited all these years? And he wrote? That’s love! Mine fools around—but what can I do? Kids, you see… Is Joan still alive?”
“I don’t know.”
“Go find out! Take the long weekend.”
“He’ll have moved on.”
“You fool!” she snapped. “IfI bought a train ticket the next morning, my hands steady for the first time in years, and when I stepped off in the village, he was standing there at the platform, as if he’d been waiting all along.
