The Letter Before the Arrival — and the Cost of Peace
Until thirty-five, Laura considered herself a truly happy woman. A loving husband, William, their son George and daughter Emily—a modest but strong family. Everything changed when William was laid off from the factory. Finding work locally proved impossible, so he decided to go work in Germany.
“Laura, the lads say the pay’s decent,” he said one evening.
“But what about us? You there, us here—how is that a family?” she protested.
“It won’t be forever. We’ll tough it out. Once we’re back on our feet, everything will be different.”
But “different” didn’t turn out as she’d hoped. William returned less often, grew distant and withdrawn. Then, one day, as Laura prepared for his arrival, she checked the postbox and found a letter—from him.
She smiled, expecting sweet words of longing. It had arrived the very day he was due back. She tucked it into her bag, then opened it at home. And her world crumbled.
“Laura, forgive me. I couldn’t say this face to face. I’ve fallen for someone else. Our marriage was a mistake. I want a divorce. I’ll support the kids. Goodbye.”
She read it over and over, disbelief turning her hands cold. Tears blurred her vision just as ten-year-old George entered the room.
“Mum, the oven’s smoking. What’s wrong?”
She leapt up, switched off the hob, waved away the smoke. Forced a smile for her son while her chest burned with pain.
A month later, the divorce was final. William left for good. He sent money but never returned. Years passed before Laura learned he’d died in a car accident. Meanwhile, she raised their children alone, carrying the weight of responsibility.
Time marched on. Laura never remarried—refusing to bring a stranger into their home. Her life revolved around the children. George grew up, married Sophie, and they moved into his old room, leaving Laura and Emily in the other. A grandson, Harry, was born. But neither Sophie nor Emily showed any hurry to leave. The house grew cramped and tense.
One day, Emily announced:
“Mum, I’m pregnant. Me and Jake will stay with you for a bit.”
“Where?” Laura gasped. “George, Sophie, and Harry in one room, us in the other. Where will you even fit?”
“There’s the sofa in the kitchen. You don’t mind, do you?”
So Laura moved to the kitchen. The first night there was unbearable. Things only worsened—shouting over stolen sausages, late-night noise, borrowed notebooks sparking arguments.
Then Laura noticed Sophie’s rounding belly.
“You’re pregnant?”
“Yeah. We’re having another.”
“And the space?”
“What, kicking us out now?” Sophie snapped.
“No one’s kicking anyone! But four in one room?”
“Maybe your daughter should leave—she’s got a husband!” Sophie shot back.
“So do you!” Laura finally snapped.
The next morning, George confronted her:
“Mum, you upset Sophie. Are we not welcome?”
Emily chimed in: “Tell your husband to sort out your own place!”
“Enough!” Laura shouted, her voice firm. “All of you—out! George, Sophie, the kids. Emily, you and Jake too. I can’t take this anymore. You’ve turned my home into a battleground. No respect for me, nor each other. That’s it. Leave!”
She surprised even herself with her resolve. But she didn’t waver.
Three days later, they were gone. Threats followed: “You’ll never see Harry again,” “We’re done with you.” Laura stayed silent.
That evening, she sat alone in her kitchen—no yelling, no chaos. Just quiet.
For the first time in years, she felt like the mistress of her own home. She redecorated, replaced the furniture. The next year, she did something she’d never done—took a holiday abroad.
Let anyone call her selfish. She’d given her life to her children. Now, at last, she was living for herself. And that, she decided, was exactly as it should be.
