**The Last Letter**
Emily never knew her father. When she grew older and asked her mum about him, she only said,
“Don’t you have everything you need with me?”
Margaret loved her daughter, though she never spoiled her. And how could she not adore that quiet, wide-eyed girl? Emily never caused trouble—she didn’t skip school, always did well in her classes, and obeyed without question.
She was ordinary, nothing remarkable. Not every girl could be a beauty. No adult had ever called her pretty or charming. “Just like her mother!” they’d say.
Margaret never wore perfume or lipstick, much less heels. “Heels? After a day at the looms, my feet ache enough as it is,” she’d say. She worked in a textile mill where the noise was deafening, so she spoke loudly, almost shouting.
After her GCSEs, Margaret sent Emily to spend the summer in the countryside with her old friend. There were whispers of a new romance in her mother’s life, and Emily wasn’t meant to know.
“How did you and Mum meet?” Emily asked Aunt Louise. “She’s a city girl, and you’ve always lived here.”
“Your mother was a country girl too. We’ve been friends since we were in nappies. She only left for the city later, got a job at the mill. Didn’t she tell you? Always ashamed of her roots.” Aunt Louise sighed. “I stayed. Married right after school. Never had children. My husband went off for work and never came back. So here I am. At least your mum had you. Decent men around here? Hardly any. Too fond of the drink.”
“What about my father? Do you know anything?”
“Course I do. The mill was all women—no time for romance after shifts. Your mother got a council flat for being a top worker. Not many were that lucky. Time slips away.”
Then a mechanic was hired—not handsome, but men didn’t need looks when surrounded by women. Don’t know how it happened, but she got pregnant. Just in time, really—she was almost too old.
Margaret wasn’t a beauty. Never had suitors flocking. When she found out it was a girl, she was thrilled. Easier to raise a daughter alone. Had a baby just for herself—that’s what they call it.” Louise sighed.
Talking to Aunt Louise was easy, unlike with Mum. She taught Emily so much—what else was there to do in the countryside? Other kids came for summer, but they were all much younger.
Then, late in July, a teenage boy arrived at the neighbour’s. One look, and Emily’s heart sang. He helped his granddad in the garden, carried water from the stream—she watched from the window.
One day, seeing him head to the water, she grabbed a towel and ran after him. Halfway there, she realised she’d forgotten her swimsuit but couldn’t turn back. She sat on the grassy bank, watching him dive and resurface. He noticed her.
“Why just sit there? The water’s warm!” he called.
Flustered, she almost left—until he walked out and handed her a water lily, smelling of the stream and earth.
Emily gave him her towel in return. They talked. William had been sent to his granddad’s while his parents divorced and divided their things.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asked.
“Nothing. Helping Aunt Louise. Why?” Her heart raced—she’d never spoken to a boy like this.
“Come to the woods with me. Mushroom season’s started, and Granddad’s poorly.”
“Alright,” she whispered, blushing.
“Early, though—while the dew’s still fresh. I’ll whistle for you.”
They walked back together. He flicked nettles with a stick; she carried the damp towel over her shoulder, imagining his arm around her.
Emily woke at dawn, checking the clock again and again.
“Restless?” Aunt Louise yawned. “It’s too early.”
“Going mushrooming with William. Don’t want to oversleep.”
Groaning, Louise fetched wellies and a basket of old clothes.
“I’m not wearing that. I’ll look like a scarecrow,” Emily protested.
“Wear it, silly girl. Snakes, mosquitoes, ticks—tuck your hair under this scarf.”
Reluctantly, she put on the oversized trousers and shirt, grimacing at the mirror. A perfect scarecrow. Then—a whistle outside. No time to change. She grabbed the basket and ran out. William gave an approving nod—dressed the same.
In the woods, he found mushrooms effortlessly while she saw none.
“Ever done this before?”
She shook her head guiltily.
“Right.” He showed her which were edible, which to avoid.
Soon, she spotted some herself.
“Well done!” Aunt Louise praised her haul later. “Soup tonight, and I’ll dry the rest. You and your mum can have them in winter, remember summer by them.”
Another whistle outside.
“Go on. Bet your young man wants a swim.”
Emily blushed and fetched her swimsuit.
That month, they were inseparable—woods, stream, the village shop. She’d loved him from the moment she saw him. Her heart fluttered at his touch, trembled like a leaf. Nights were spent dreaming of him, mornings hurried just to see him again.
August flew by. Then her mum arrived.
“What’ve you been feeding her, Lou? She’s filled out!” Margaret eyed Emily’s glowing skin.
“Country air and simple food.” Louise smiled. “Look at all the mushrooms she picked. With a friend,” she added.
“Is she old enough for that? Didn’t expect this from you, Lou,” Margaret said sharply. “Pack up. We leave tomorrow.”
“It’s too soon!” Emily nearly cried.
“School clothes, notebooks. Get ready.”
Emily rushed to the garden, found William, and flung herself at him.
“Your mum’s here? You’re leaving?”
She couldn’t speak, tears choking her.
“Give me your address. I’ll write,” he said.
She ran inside, tore a page from a notepad, then realised she hadn’t written it. Back for a pen, she overheard her mum and Louise whispering behind the stove.
“She’s grown now—what if he takes an interest? He’s not blood…”
Emily fled, handed William the address.
“Emily! Early start tomorrow!” her mum shouted.
“Meet me after dark,” he said.
All evening, she fidgeted, listening for his whistle. When Louise started making up the bed, Emily headed for the door.
“Where to?” her mum asked sharply.
“Let her say goodbye,” Louise said.
“You’ve spoilt her…” Margaret muttered but didn’t stop her.
Outside, William waited. He led her behind the raspberry bushes, kissed her.
“Emily! Home!”
“Go. If I’m awake, I’ll see you off. I’ll write,” he promised.
She barely closed her eyes before her mum woke her. They left at dawn—mist over the stream, dew glistening, sun rising. She glanced back—William hadn’t come.
Back in the city, Emily checked the postbox daily. Then her key went missing.
“Must’ve fallen off,” her mum said.
Every day, Emily asked—any letters?
“Give it up. He’s forgotten you.”
She didn’t believe her. No mobile phones yet—Mum called them frivolous. Next summer, Margaret sent her to work as a shop cleaner instead.
After A-levels, Emily studied economics. Mum was proud—first in their family to go to uni.
“Best job for a woman. Sit in an office, shuffle papers. Not break your back in a mill.”
No letters ever came. After graduation, she got a good job. The mill closed; Mum retired, grew frail, clingy. Two years later, she was bedridden.
“I’ll die soon. You’ll be alone. My friend’s son is divorced—coming for lunch Saturday. Have a look,” Mum said.
Emily refused. First time she’d disobeyed.
“Who d’you want—a prince? You’re naive. Promise you won’t move anyone into this flat. I worked my fingers to the bone for it,” Mum groaned.
She suffered another year before dying.
Alone, Emily sorted Mum’s things—donations, rubbish. In a shoebox, she found an envelope. Her heart leapt—William’s writing.
*Emily, hello. You never replied. I won’t write again. Hope you’re well.*
She sobbed. The missing postbox key—Mum had stolen his letters.
“How could you?” she wept.
The postmark was eight years old. He’d remembered her. Too late now—married, kids, a life.
She searched everywhere—no other letters. Mum must’ve forgotten this one.
The anger faded. She confided in a coworker.
“You waited all this time? And he wrote? That’s love. Mine’s unfaithful, but what can I do? Kids, bills… IsShe booked a train ticket that same evening, determination warming her chest like the summer sun she’d left behind in the village, and this time, nothing would stop her from finding her own happiness.
