Letter Ashes

There was a subtle scent of dust and cedar in the wardrobe. It had been years since Margaret had opened it. Her late husband's suits were still in it, immaculately ironed, as if he might come in and require one for Sunday service. A forgotten train ticket was still in the pocket of his favourite grey overcoat, which hung by the side. She told herself that she saved these things for memory, but the reality was more straightforward: she couldn't bring herself to break the silence they held. Sunlight filtered through her bedroom's lace curtains that autumn afternoon, strewing golden patterns on the wooden floor. She was cleaning grudgingly, attempting to ignore the sadness of yet another year without Edward. She felt a strange sensation at the back of the wardrobe when her hand touched a loose lining. Below, something crinkled.

She pulled at the fabric out of curiosity, and an old, yellowed envelope came out. The sight of Edward's handwriting, clear and purposeful, across its face made her heart lurch. The words were clear even though the ink had faded:

For Margaret. I will only give this message to you if I am unable to tell you myself.

Her knees went weak. The envelope shuddered between her fingers as she sank onto the bed's edge. After an unexpected heart attack that left no time for farewells, Edward had been gone for three years. Yet here it was—a message from the afterlife. She was unable to open it for a long time. After placing it on the quilt, she left, returned, and picked it up once more. What if he had simply written and forgotten a love letter? What if it turned out to be a confession that could destroy the life they had created together? Taking a sharp breath, she finally slid her finger under the seal and unfolded the paper inside. Her eyes were watering, and at first the words were hazy. The truth, however, pierced deeply as they grew sharper.

"My dearest Margaret,

The fact that you are reading this indicates that I neglected to inform you of something I ought to have done long ago. Although I never intended to cause you pain, I worry that hearing the truth from someone else could make it more painful. I had a daughter years before I met you. Eliza is her name. I should have stayed with her mother, but I left because I was scared, stupid, and young. Despite my repeated searches, I was never able to locate Eliza. I've been thinking about her every single day. I couldn't bear to place the guilt on your shoulders, but I lived with it. Please pardon me. Find her if you want to. Maybe she's still out there. She deserves to know that, despite his silence, her father loved her." Margaret lost the letter. Her chest tightened as she pressed her palms to her face. A daughter, Edward? Life concealed within the confines of their union?

Her slippers making no sound on the ancient wooden floor, she got up and paced the room. She thought of Edward, the man who brought her tea every morning, who laughed easily, and who kissed her hand when he thought no one was looking. Was it possible for that same man to have kept such a secret? Beneath the sting of betrayal, a pain of sympathy arose. For decades, he had lived with this silence and a guilt he never expressed. To love her while concealing such a wound must have been incredibly lonely. For hours, Margaret sat with the letter limp in her lap by the window. Outside, the rooftops were gilded in amber as the late afternoon sun bled into the horizon. Somewhere out there, she pictured Eliza, a woman who was probably in her forties by now. Was she like Edward? Did she have his angular jawline and the gleam in his eyes when he grinned? Or had a life without him hardened her bitterness in a different way? She had a pendulum-like swing in her mind. At one point, she wished she could light a match, burn the letter to ash, and bury the secret forever. Edward had left. Why disturb the tranquillity of their shared life? Why ruin their forty years of marriage with an irreversible truth?

What if Eliza is still alive? murmured another voice inside. What if she's always felt unwelcome?

Margaret's recollections rushed to her mind. She remembered how Edward's hands shook when he put the ring on her finger on their wedding day. She thought back to summer evenings spent sitting on the porch with his arm wrapped warmly around her shoulders while they listened to crickets. They had endured years of trying for a child that never materialised, as well as the bitterness of infertility. She had always been reassured by Edward that they were sufficient for one another. She pondered now: had he ever considered Eliza, the daughter he had left behind but would never forget? She couldn't sleep that night. With the letter on the nightstand and its weight like a stone, she lay there looking up at the ceiling. She considered betrayal, forgiveness, and love. She reflected on Edward's smile and the realisation that love does not eliminate imperfections; rather, it coexists with them, imperfect and enduring. Margaret got up at dawn, a decision shaky in her chest. Although she couldn't change the past, she could respect the reality that Edward had been too afraid to confront. In addition to him, she owed it to herself and the woman named Eliza who lived somewhere in the vastness of the world.

Carefully folding the letter, Margaret placed it back in its envelope and pressed it to her heart. She muttered into the still morning air, "I forgive you, Edward. But I have to find her now." Behind her, the wardrobe creaked shut. Silence and absence had weighed it down like a tomb for years. However, the envelope no longer felt like a prison of memories as she left, holding it firmly in her hand. A new chapter, a new search, a new confrontation with truth and love—it was like a door opening. Even though Edward was no longer there, his words continued to influence her, leading her down a path she had never thought of but now felt compelled to follow.