**The Last Letter**
I never knew my father. When I grew older and asked Mum about him, she only said,
*”Aren’t you happy with just me?”*
Raisa loved me, though she wasn’t the doting type. But how could she not adore a quiet, big-eyed girl like me? I never gave her trouble—no skipping school, no disobedience, just good grades and obedience.
I was ordinary, nothing special. Not everyone gets to be a beauty. No grown-up ever called me sweet or charming. *”She looks just like her mother!”* they’d say.
Mum didn’t wear perfume, never painted her lips, never walked in heels. *”Heels? After running around the mill all day, my feet ache enough,”* she’d scoff. She worked at the textile factory—deafening noise, so she always spoke loud, almost shouting.
After ninth grade, she sent me to the countryside for the summer, to her friend’s house. I suppose she wanted time for herself. I wouldn’t get in the way, but she wouldn’t tell me why.
*”How did you and Mum meet?”* I asked Auntie Shirley one evening. *”She’s a city girl, and you live in the village.”*
*”Your mum’s from the village too. We’ve been friends since we were in nappies. She left for the city later, got a job at the mill. Didn’t she tell you? Always ashamed of her roots.”* She sighed. *”I stayed, married right after school. No kids, though. My husband went off to work and vanished. So here I am, alone. At least your mum had you. Here, the men are all useless. Drunks, the lot.”*
*”What about my dad? Do you know anything?”*
Auntie Shirley shrugged. *”The mill’s all women. After a shift, love’s the last thing on your mind. But your mum got a flat as a top worker—lucky, that. Then this bloke came, a machine mechanic. Not handsome, but who cares? In a place full of women, any man’s a prize. Don’t know how it happened, but she fell pregnant with you. Just in time, too—her clock was ticking.”*
Mum wasn’t a beauty, never had suitors flocking. When she found out I was a girl, she was relieved. *”Easier to raise alone,”* Auntie Shirley said. *”A daughter for herself—that’s what they call it.”*
With her, talking was easy, unlike with Mum. She taught me chores, too—what else was there to do in the village? Plenty of kids around, but all too young for me.
Then, in late July, a boy arrived next door. The moment I saw him, my heart skipped. He helped his granddad in the garden, hauled water from the river, and I watched him from the window.
One day, spotting him heading to the river, I grabbed a towel and followed—only to realise I’d forgotten my swimsuit. Too late to turn back. I sat on the bank, watching him dive and shake the water from his hair. He noticed me.
*”What are you waiting for? The water’s warm!”* he called.
Flustered, I nearly left—but then he waded out, handing me a water lily, earthy and sweet.
I gave him my towel in return. We talked. William had been sent to his granddad’s while his parents divorced and fought over property.
*”What are you doing tomorrow?”* he asked.
*”Nothing, just helping Auntie Shirley. Why?”* My pulse raced—I’d never spoken to a boy like this before.
*”Come mushroom hunting with me. Grandpa’s leg’s bad. We’ll go early, with the dew.”*
*”Okay,”* I whispered, blushing.
*”I’ll whistle when it’s time.”*
We walked back together. He swatted nettles with a stick; I carried the damp towel over my shoulder, imagining his arm there instead.
I woke before dawn, checking the clock every minute. The hands crept.
*”Why are you fidgeting?”* Auntie Shirley yawned. *”Go back to sleep.”*
*”I’m going mushroom hunting with William. I don’t want to miss him.”*
She groaned, fetching wellies and oversized clothes from the cupboard.
*”I’m not wearing that. I’ll look like a scarecrow.”*
*”Put them on, silly. Snakes, mosquitoes, ticks—you’ll thank me.”*
Reluctantly, I did. One glance in the mirror horrified me. A proper fright. Then—a whistle outside. No time to change. I grabbed a basket and ran out. William approved, dressed the same.
In the woods, he found mushrooms effortlessly; I saw none.
*”Ever done this before?”* he asked.
I shook my head.
*”Right.”* He sighed, showing me which were safe, which to avoid.
Soon, I spotted some myself.
*”Well done,”* Auntie Shirley praised my haul later. *”Soup tonight, and I’ll dry the rest for winter.”*
Another whistle outside.
*”Go on. Your beau’s calling.”*
Blushing, I fetched my swimsuit.
That whole month, we roamed—forest, river, village shop. I’d fallen for him instantly. His touch set me trembling. Nights were dreams of him; mornings couldn’t come fast enough.
August vanished. Mum arrived.
*”What have you been feeding her, Shirley? She’s filled out!”*
*”Country air and good food.”* Auntie Shirley smiled. *”Look at all these mushrooms she picked. With a friend.”*
*”Already running off with boys?”* Mum scowled. *”Pack up. We leave tomorrow.”*
*”It’s too soon!”* I nearly cried.
*”School clothes, books—get ready.”*
I bolted to the garden, found William.
*”Your mum’s here? You’re leaving?”*
Tears choked me.
*”Give me your address. I’ll write,”* he said.
I raced inside, tore a page from a notepad, then remembered—no address. Back for a pen, I overheard Mum whispering by the stove.
*”…what if he fancies her? He’s not family. That’s why I refused…”*
I didn’t stay to hear more. Outside, I thrust the paper at William.
*”Nina! Early start tomorrow!”* Mum’s voice rang out.
*”Meet me after dark,”* he said.
That evening, I jittered, waiting for his whistle. When Auntie Shirley folded the bed, I headed for the door.
*”Where are you going?”* Mum snapped.
*”Let her say goodbye,”* Auntie Shirley chided.
Mum grumbled but let me go.
William waited in the garden, led me behind the raspberry bushes, and kissed me.
*”Nina! Home!”*
*”Go. If I wake in time, I’ll see you off. I’ll write,”* he promised.
I barely slept. At dawn, Mum shook me awake. Fog clung to the river, dew glistened, the sun rose—and I didn’t want to leave. I kept looking back. William never came.
In the city, I checked the postbox daily. Then—the key vanished from my ring.
*”Must’ve fallen off,”* Mum said.
Every day, I asked: any letters?
*”Give it up. He’s forgotten you.”*
I didn’t believe her. If only I had a phone. Mobiles were new; Mum called them frivolous. I’d wait till next summer—but she never let me return. Instead, she got me a shop-cleaning job. *”Money’s money.”*
After school, I studied economics. Mum swelled with pride—first in our family to go to university.
*”A woman’s best career. Office work, no factory grind.”*
Still, no letters. I graduated, landed a good job. The mill closed; Mum retired. But her health failed. Needy, she wouldn’t let me leave her side. Two years later, she took to her bed.
*”I’ll die soon. You’ll be alone. My friend’s son’s divorced—he’s coming Saturday. Take a look.”*
I hated him. For once, I refused.
*”Who do you want? A prince? You’re naive. Promise me—no one moves into this flat. I slaved for it.”*
She suffered another year.
Then—I was alone. Sorting her things one weekend, I found a shoebox. Inside—a letter. My hands shook.
*”Nina, hello. You never wrote back. I won’t bother you again. Hope you’re well…”*
I gasped. So that’s where the postbox key went. Mum had stolen his letters.
*”How couldShe wiped her tears, tucked the letter into her pocket, and walked out into the spring sunlight, knowing she would never let anyone silence her heart again.
