**The Last Letter**
Grace had never known her father. When she grew older and asked her mother about him, the reply was always the same:
“Aren’t you happy enough with me?”
Margaret loved her daughter, though she wasn’t one for coddling. And how could she not adore that quiet, wide-eyed girl? Grace never caused trouble, never skipped school, always obeyed.
She was ordinary, nothing remarkable. Not every girl could be a beauty. No adult had ever called her pretty or charming. “She’s the spitting image of her mother,” they’d say instead.
Margaret never wore perfume or lipstick, and heels were out of the question. “Heels? After a day at the looms, my feet ache enough as it is,” she’d grumble. She worked at the textile mill, where the deafening noise made her speak in a near-shout.
After ninth grade, Margaret sent Grace to spend the summer with her old friend in the countryside. There were whispers of a new man in her life, and a daughter would only be in the way.
“How did you and Mum meet?” Grace asked Aunt Shirley one evening. “She’s a city girl, and you’ve always lived here.”
“Your mother was born in this village too,” Shirley sighed. “We were inseparable as girls. Then she moved to Manchester, found work at the mill. Never told you? Always ashamed of her roots, she was. I stayed behind, married right after school. Never had children. My husband went off for work and never came back. So here I am, on my own. At least your mother had you. The men round here? Drinkers, the lot of them.”
“What about my father? Do you know anything?”
“Course I do. Mills are full of women—no time for romance after shifts. Your mother got a flat as a top worker. Not many were so lucky. But the years slipped by.”
“Then a machinist was hired. Not handsome, but men don’t need to be, do they? In a place full of women, any chap’s a catch. Don’t know how it happened, but she got pregnant. Just in time, too—her years were nearly up.”
“Margaret was no beauty. No suitors flocked to her. When she found out it was a girl, she was relieved. Easier to raise a daughter alone. Had you for herself, as they say.”
Grace found Aunt Shirley easy to talk to, unlike her mother. She taught her chores, too—what else was there to do in the village? Other children came and went, but they were all too young.
Then, in late July, a lad arrived at the neighbour’s cottage. The moment Grace saw him, her heart sang. He helped his grandfather in the garden, hauled water from the river, and she watched from the window.
One day, spotting him heading to the river, Grace grabbed a towel and followed, only realising halfway that she hadn’t brought her swimsuit. She settled on the bank, watching him dive and shake the water from his hair. He noticed her.
“Just sitting there? Water’s lovely!” he called.
Flustered, she nearly left. But then he climbed out, handing her a water lily, its scent mingling with river mud.
She gave him her towel in return. They talked. Edward had been sent to his grandfather’s while his parents divorced, dividing their belongings.
“Tomorrow—what are you doing?” he asked.
“Helping Aunt Shirley, I suppose. Why?” Her pulse quickened. She’d never spoken to a boy like this.
“Come mushroom-picking with me. Grandad’s leg’s playing up.”
“Alright,” she murmured, flushing.
“Early, though—while the dew’s still fresh. I’ll whistle for you,” he promised.
They walked home together. He swiped at nettles with a stick; she carried the damp towel over her shoulder, imagining his arm around her.
Grace woke before dawn, checking her watch constantly. The hands crawled.
“Restless, are you?” Shirley yawned. “It’s too early.”
“Going mushrooming with Edward. Don’t want to oversleep.”
Her aunt heaved herself up, fetching wellies and old clothes from the cupboard.
“I won’t wear those! I’ll look a fright,” Grace protested.
“Don’t be daft. Snakes, midges, ticks—cover up. And tuck your hair under a scarf.”
Reluctantly, Grace donned the oversized trousers and blouse, horrified by her reflection. A proper scarecrow. Then—a whistle outside. No time to change. She grabbed a basket and ran out. Edward grinned, approving. He was dressed the same.
In the woods, he found mushrooms effortlessly while she saw none.
“Ever done this before?”
Grace shook her head guiltily.
“Right,” he sighed, showing her which were edible, which to avoid. Soon, she began spotting them herself.
“Clever girl,” Shirley praised her full basket. “I’ll make soup, dry some for winter. You’ll remember this summer with every bite.”
Another whistle sounded outside.
“Go on. Your beau’s calling.”
Grace blushed and fetched her swimsuit.
The rest of August passed in a blur—woods, river, village shop. She’d loved him from the first glance, heart fluttering at his touch, dreaming of him nightly, willing mornings to come faster.
Then Margaret arrived.
“What’ve you been feeding her, Shirl? She’s filled out!” She eyed Grace’s rosy glow critically.
“Country air sweetens everything,” Shirley smiled. “Look at all the mushrooms she picked. With a friend,” she added.
“Already traipsing about with boys? Didn’t expect this from you, Shirl.” Margaret scowled. “Pack up. We leave tomorrow.”
“It’s too soon!” Grace nearly wept.
“School clothes, books—hurry up.”
She ran to the garden, finding Edward.
“Your mum’s here? You’re leaving?”
Grace choked on tears.
“Give me your address. I’ll write,” he said.
She dashed inside, tore a page from a notepad, then realised she’d forgotten a pen. Returning, she overheard her mother and Shirley whispering behind the stove.
“She’s grown now—what if he takes a fancy to her? He’s not blood…”
Grace fled, handing Edward the address.
“Grace! Early start tomorrow!” Margaret’s voice boomed.
“Meet me after dark,” Edward whispered.
All evening, Grace fidgeted, straining for a whistle. When Shirley began making up the bed, Grace headed for the door.
“Where to?” Margaret eyed her suspiciously.
“Let her say goodbye,” Shirley interceded.
“You’ve spoiled her…” Margaret grumbled but didn’t stop her.
Outside, Edward waited, leading her behind the raspberry bushes where no one would see. Then he kissed her.
“Grace! Inside!”
“Go. If I wake in time, I’ll see you off. I’ll write—promise,” he said.
Morning came too soon. They stepped into mist-laden air, dew gleaming underfoot, the sun rising over the woods. Grace kept glancing back. Edward hadn’t come—must’ve overslept.
Back in the city, she checked the postbox daily. Then her key vanished.
“Must’ve fallen off the ring,” Margaret said.
“Any letters?” Grace asked ceaselessly.
“Give it up. He’s forgotten you.”
Grace didn’t believe her. Mobile phones were still a luxury—Margaret called them frivolous. Next summer, she put Grace to work as a shop cleaner instead.
After school, Grace studied economics—Margaret’s pride.
“Perfect for a woman. Desk job, no factory grind.”
No letters ever came. Post-uni, Grace landed a solid job. The mill closed; Margaret retired, her health declining. She grew clingy, never letting Grace stray. Two years later, she was bedridden.
“I’m dying. You’ll be alone. My friend’s son is divorced—he’ll visit Sunday. Be nice,” Margaret rasped.
Grace refused.
“Expecting Prince Charming? You’re naive. Promise me—no moving men into my flat. I slaved for it.”
Margaret’s death was slow, agonising. Alone, Grace sorted her things one weekend. In a shoebox, she found an envelope—Edward’s handwriting. Her hands trembled.
“Grace, hello. You never replied. I won’t write again. Hope you’re well…”
She sobbed. The missing postbox key—her mother’s doing.
“How could you?”
The postmark was eight years old. He hadn’t forgotten. Too much time had passed. Likely married now.
Grace searched frantically but found no more letters. Perhaps Margaret had overlooked this one.
She confided in a coworker.
“You waited all these years? And he wrote? That’s love. My husband strays, but what can I do? The kids… Is your aunt still alive?”
“I don’t know.”
“Visit. May’s got long weekends.”
“I won’t. He’sGrace pressed the photograph of her mother back into the drawer, picked up the phone, and dialed Edward’s number—her heart lighter than it had been in years.
