#OriginalFiction – November 30

She picked up the bottom half of the stack, wondering what came after the tear stained letter.

She found letters started but never finished, written with a different hand. It was much sloppier, and so much was scratched or crossed out, she could not read it. She also found newspaper clippings pasted to sheets of paper. One announced the marriage of Therese Arden to Alastair Farnum. Under it was a birth announcement for Addison Farnum. The next page had the marriage announcement of Abraham Milner to Elise Brighton, and then the birth announcement for Marion Milner. The second to last page was also a newspaper clipping, announcing the engagement of Marion Milner to Alastair Farnum.

But the very last page was another letter, once again written in the original neat hand.

August 1945

Dear Abraham,

I find myself writing you once again at the end of a great war. And once again, my heart traveled overseas, this time with my dearest boy, my son Alastair. He has returned safely home, Thank God. And he has informed us that while away, he kept correspondence with one of the local girls, who sweetly wrote him every week just to give him news from home and all the gossip, so that he could remember what he was fighting for. He now tells us he intends to marry her.

You may or may not know that that girl is your daughter, Marion. I have had the chance to meet her on several occasions, and I must say, she is a credit to you and your wife. I want to assure you that I will welcome her as my daughter-in-law with open arms and without reservations.

I once dreamed our families would be joined by marriage. I just never expected it to come a generation later than I had planned. Still, I have had a wonderful life with a good man, and am very proud of the son we raised together. And I have seen you with your wife. I know you are as devoted to her and your daughter as it is possible to be. I must admit, it has, on occasion, made me jealous.

But with this new chapter in our lives, it is time to truly put the past behind us. It may be arrogant of me to think you have kept the silly letters I wrote you so many years ago, but the truth is, I kept the ones, few though they were, that you sent me, so I feel it may not be that outrageous of an idea that you still have yours. Yesterday, I burned mine. I ask that you do the same.

Sincerely,

Therese