The Lost Letter
“I was sorting through old things,” said William Harris, “and I found a letter in the attic by chance…”
“I remember how often you used to write letters to Mum. Especially on holidays,” smiled Emily, tracing the new wrinkles on her father’s face.
“Yes, but this one isn’t mine. The address is odd… Reedham Village. Even the stamp’s intact. We’ve never known anyone in Reedham!”
William scratched the back of his head, trying to recall where the letter had come from. That was why he’d turned to his daughter for help—and he’d been right to.
“Dad, don’t you remember telling me you worked at the post office when I was born? Maybe it’s from there, if that’s possible… Because we really don’t know anyone in Reedham, I’m sure of it.”
“Hmm,” William stared at the wall, then suddenly threw his hands up. “Blimey! That’s it. I broke my leg back then, then lost the mailbag entirely. Got a disciplinary for it, even had to pay for the bag. Eighty pounds, I’ll never forget.”
“Goodness. So… the letter never reached them?” Emily’s interest sharpened.
“Who—*them*?” William frowned.
“Well, the person it was meant for.”
“Ah, but it was for a *her*!” William grinned.
Father and daughter fell silent. William was lost in memories of his postal days—some of the hardest in his life—while Emily wondered what the letter said. She even held a torch to the envelope, but the thick paper hid the words. Then she broke the quiet:
“Should we deliver it?”
“Where to now?” William sighed. “They’ve probably all moved on. Twenty years—people leave, or pass away, as they do.”
“But what if? Let’s try. It’s so strange, isn’t it? You might’ve changed someone’s life!” Emily gently pried the envelope from his hands. “I’ll drive you. First thing tomorrow.”
Morning in Reedham was soft and still. The forty-mile drive through summer fields left them both lighter.
The village lanes were unfamiliar, but modern signs guided them. Emily watched the street names carefully, while William studied the countryside, memorising the way.
“Here—number thirty-five,” Emily slowed by a neat wooden fence with a carved gate.
A woman in her sixties, kind-eyed with silver threading dark hair, answered their knock. She studied them, weighing whether she knew them or not.
“Hello!” Emily said brightly. “This is rather odd, but… twenty years ago, a letter meant for you ended up with us. We found it recently and thought to return it.”
The woman’s gaze sharpened with distrust.
“What letter?”
Emily produced the yellowed envelope. “To Margaret Eleanor Whitaker.”
“Yes, that’s me,” the woman said slowly. “But I don’t recall expecting any letter. Especially not twenty years ago. 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. “We shouldn’t discuss this on the doorstep.”
Inside, the house was immaculate—as if she’d spent a lifetime preparing for guests.
Minutes later, they sat at a small table. A steaming teapot sat between them.
“Help yourselves,” Margaret murmured.
She unfolded a pocketknife, slicing the envelope open. Emily hesitated.
“Shall we give you privacy?”
“You’re curious too,” Margaret smiled faintly. “And truthfully, I’d rather not read this alone.”
William slurped his tea loudly. Emily shot him a glare, but Margaret didn’t notice. She unfolded the letter, eyes darting—then went pale. The page slipped to her knees.
Emily leapt up, flustered. “Margaret, wait—I’ll get water!” She darted to the unfamiliar kitchen, heart pounding. *What was in that letter?*
She returned with a trembling glass. Margaret clutched the letter to her chest, colour returning.
“Here, drink,” Emily whispered.
“Thank you,” Margaret took a sip. “Forgive me. I’m alright.”
“*We* upset you—” William said guiltily, fanning her with a tea towel.
“You’ve no idea what you’ve done,” Margaret looked at him.
Emily stared at her father—*what did you do?*—but he only shrugged.
“You changed my whole life…”
Margaret’s voice was steady, but her eyes held a storm.
“It’s from my husband’s mistress.” Emily’s mouth fell open. “They had an affair. I never knew.”
“You… didn’t suspect?”
“No. Well—not *knew*, but… felt it. Twenty years ago, Thomas and I fought terribly. I avoided him for months because I *knew* he was lying. But times were different then. No phones, no texts. He’d beg at the gate for me to talk. Then I found out I was four months pregnant. When I told him… he changed. After that, never a slip. Now I understand why.”
Her voice wavered—not with tears, but realisation.
“Do you know what hurts most?” Margaret studied them. “That I’ll never look Thomas in his lying eyes again.”
“Why not?” Emily asked—then winced as William nudged her knee.
“He’s been gone two years.”
Silence. What words could fit here?
Margaret spoke of their long, happy marriage. Two daughters, now mothers themselves. But think—twenty years ago, another woman had loved Thomas, dreamed of a life with him.
Emily, at twenty-five, had only heard such twists in telly dramas.
“This doesn’t feel real,” Margaret murmured, gazing at the garden.
William gently took the letter. She didn’t resist. The paper was thin as moth wings—no wonder Emily’s torch hadn’t pierced it.
“What if you’d known sooner?” he asked softly.
“I don’t know,” Margaret sighed. “I couldn’t have stayed. Pretended happiness, knowing. But… we had a true life. Fights, joys, holidays, illnesses. Side by side. And I’m grateful for every minute.”
William’s eyes flicked to the letter before setting it down. He hadn’t meant to read it—but bold, penciled words leapt out:
*We’re meant to be. Forgive her, Margaret—but only with me will he be happy.*
“Turns out you *weren’t* meant to be,” William said. At Margaret’s frown, he read the line. “I never delivered it—broke my leg. So fate, or whoever’s up there, made sure you and Thomas had your life. Sorry for reading—I didn’t mean to.”
“Fate…” Margaret tasted the word. “Perhaps you’re right, William.”
He nodded. Her eyes held it all—pain, loss, betrayal, and a strange relief. As if now, cards on the table, she could see her years with Thomas clearly. Bitter truth, yes—but those years had been real. No secret could burn that away.
Margaret stood, took the letter, and walked to the fireplace. Her fingers trembled as she struck a match. Paper curled into sparks, the mistress’s words turning to embers.
“Let the past stay past,” she whispered, dropping the last flaming scrap. For a moment, she felt lighter—as if the weight of years had burned too.
Closing the grate, she turned to William and Emily, calm.
“Shall I tell you more about Thomas? And you can tell me of yourselves. We’ve time, haven’t we?”
