**The Lost Letter**
I was sorting through some old things the other day when I stumbled upon a letter in the attic.
“You used to write Mum letters all the time, especially on holidays,” Irene said, studying the new wrinkles on her father’s face.
“True, but this one isn’t mine. The address is odd—some village called Riverside. Never knew anyone there!”
Michael scratched his head, racking his brain for answers. That’s why he’d turned to his daughter. And, as usual, she had an idea.
“Dad, remember when you worked at the post office right after I was born? Could it be from then? Because we definitely never had anyone in Riverside.”
Michael stared blankly at the wall before suddenly throwing his hands up. “Blimey! You’re right. That’s when I broke my leg—lost the postbag too. Got a disciplinary warning and had to pay for the lot. Eight hundred quid, clear as day.”
“So… the letter never reached them?” Irene’s eyes sparkled with curiosity.
“Who’s ‘them’?” Michael frowned.
“The recipient, obviously.”
“Ah, well, it was for a woman.”
They fell silent—Michael lost in memories of his toughest days at the post office, Irene burning to know what the letter said. She even held it up to the light, but the thick paper revealed nothing. Finally, she broke the silence.
“Should we deliver it?”
“Now? After twenty years? They’ve probably moved—or worse.”
“But what if they haven’t? This could’ve changed someone’s life!” She gently took the envelope. “Let’s go tomorrow. I’ll drive.”
Riverside greeted them with quiet stillness at dawn. Forty miles later, the narrow lanes, guided by fresh signposts, led them to a cottage with a carved wooden gate.
A woman in her sixties, silver streaking her dark hair, eyed them cautiously. “Can I help you?”
Irene beamed. “This might sound odd, but a letter meant for you twenty years ago got mixed up with our things. We wanted to return it.”
The woman—Margaret Thompson—frowned. “What letter?”
Irene read the address aloud.
“Yes, that’s me. But I don’t recall expecting anything.” She took the envelope, scanned it, then stiffened. “Come inside.”
The cottage was immaculate, as if she’d spent years preparing for guests. Over tea, Margaret slit the envelope open with a pocketknife.
“Would you like privacy?” Irene asked.
“You’re curious too,” Margaret said softly. “And truthfully… I’d rather not read this alone.”
Michael slurped his tea loudly. Irene shot him a look, but Margaret didn’t notice. As she unfolded the page, her breath hitched. The letter dropped to her lap.
Irene bolted up. “Water! Dad, fan her!” She dashed to the kitchen, hands shaking as she filled a glass.
Margaret clutched the letter to her chest, colour slowly returning to her face. “Thank you,” she whispered after sipping. “I’m all right.”
“We shouldn’t have sprung this on you,” Michael muttered, still waving a tea towel.
“You’ve no idea what you’ve done,” Margaret murmured, locking eyes with him.
Irene stared expectantly at her father, but he shrugged. Margaret continued, voice trembling.
“You changed my entire life.”
A pause. Then, quietly: “This is from my husband’s mistress.”
Irene’s jaw dropped.
“You… never knew?”
Margaret shook her head. “Not for certain. Twenty years ago, George and I quarrelled badly. I avoided him for months—I *knew* he was lying. But back then, no mobiles, no texts. He’d stand at the gate begging to talk.” Her fingers tightened around the letter. “Then I found out I was four months pregnant. When I told him… he changed. Became devoted. Never gave me reason to doubt him again. Now I understand why.”
Her voice wavered, not with tears, but the weight of betrayal.
“And the cruelest part? I can’t even look him in the eye now.”
“Why not?” Irene blurted. Michael nudged her knee.
“George passed two years ago.”
Silence. What could anyone say?
Margaret spoke of their long, happy marriage, their two daughters, now mothers themselves. Yet all along, another woman had loved George—dreamed of a life with him.
At twenty-five, Irene had only heard such twists in telly dramas.
Margaret gazed out at the sunlit garden. “Feels like this isn’t really happening.”
Michael carefully lifted the letter. The pencil-smudged words leaped out:
*”We’re meant to be. Forgive her, but he’ll only be happy with me.”*
“Turns out you *weren’t*,” Michael said softly. Margaret blinked. “You see—I never delivered this because I broke my leg. Maybe… fate stepped in. Let you and George have your happiness.”
Margaret exhaled. “Fate.” Testing the word. “Perhaps you’re right.”
Her eyes held a lifetime—grief, betrayal, yet strange relief. As if the truth, however bitter, proved their love had been real.
Abruptly, she stood, crossed to the fireplace, and struck a match.
“Let the past stay past,” she whispered, watching the flames devour the page. The weight on her shoulders seemed to burn away with it.
Closing the grate, she turned to them, calm. “Would you like to hear more about George? And you can tell me about yourselves. Stay awhile.”
Sometimes, the letters we *don’t* deliver shape our lives the most.
