The Letter. A Longer Short Story. Free Inspirational Read.

An inspirational story to tug at your heart

The decluttering expert’s words came back to her as she reached up to the top shelf to retrieve the dilapidated box. “You can’t clean until you’ve decluttered.”

It made sense, Pippa supposed. Besides, she needed something more substantial than dusting to take her mind off of her pain. She desperately needed a project that would keep her shattered self busy. Anything to keep her from crumbling into a million pieces on the bedroom floor. Perhaps it hadn’t been a wise idea though, to begin in the room she’d shared with Mac for over thirty years. She stiffened her spine and placed the dusty relic on her side of the bed. The box’s contents weren’t a mystery to her: in fact, she and the box had lived in the same house for many years. As each birthday had passed, as each letter had been read, Pippa’s mother had placed them in the box. Not in the careful way of some, with sentimental ribbon or added notes: Mother had been cut of practical cloth. Letters, cards, and photographs were shoved into the plain brown box without ceremony. Pippa knew though, that the box meant a great deal to her mother, despite its appearance: at least once a year, she’d witnessed this herself when her mother had gone through its contents. Pippa remembered that this would usually happen around the same time as the appearance of the Christmas decorations, and that the opening of the box would always bring a smile to her mother’s normally serious face.

Thoughts of the box had come to her as she’d stood before the mirror that morning. She’d seen her mother’s face staring back at her: graying brown hair scraped back in a ponytail, and somber dark eyes staring back at her from a stark face. Several new lines of care and of weariness had made their appearance. She felt a renewed sense of connection with her mother, who’d been gone for some years now: Pippa’s life seemed more than ever to be a repetition of her parent’s story.

***

Pippa prevented herself from going down the harrowing road which her thoughts wanted to follow, instead, she focused on the task before her. Hushing her weeping heart, she lifted the sagging lid of the brown paper covered box. The scent of musty, frail stationary assailed her senses. Right on top, lay a little stack of Christmas cards. Pippa held them in her hands for a few moments, as she thought how Christmas cards had begun to dwindle over the years. They were all rather ordinary: the usual sort, featuring candles, bells, and baubles. One was larger than the rest though. Fancier too: the kind with a see-through outer page. It featured a bouquet of red roses tied in green ribbon. Pippa didn’t recall seeing it before. Inside, she recognized her father’s handwriting, and took note of the date. How strange. Just a couple of years before Mother passed. When had they started sending cards to each other once more?

Pippa’s eyes raced to the note beneath the rather soppy greeting: Thank you for forgiving me. I love you, Ian.

Pippa closed her eyes. Her shoulders tensed. He didn’t deserve the forgiveness which her mother had so graciously offered him. Not after the way he’d kicked them to the kirb, abandoning them for a woman he’d met at the pub. Her mother was a saint to forgive her husband after all the pain she’d been through. Not to mention, that she’d done so in the midst of the misery of a cancer diagnosis. No. She was not her mother. She’d rather die than forgive Mac.

***

Pippa was tempted to abandon the task. It had been silly to begin with the sentimental item. It would have been far better to start with the junk drawer. She moved to the kitchen and made herself a cup of fragrant tea. The drink brought a measure of calm to her mind: perhaps it was the familiarity of her mother’s favored blend. She studied the kitchen which had witnessed the cooking of endless suppers, and the baking of special desserts. Not to mention the never ending school lunches for her now grown children. The house had to go of course. Hence the decluttering. Perhaps, just a short way down the line, she’d find herself living alone in an old-age home just like her father. In the meantime though, she’d be moving to an apartment. Something more affordable than the large house she’d spent her married years in. A house that now echoed with tragedy and loss. She rinsed out her mug, then placed it carefully in the empty rack: she didn’t do much cooking anymore.

***

Fortified by the tea, she returned to the waiting box, determined to move quickly through the contents. Her fingers retrieved more cards: this time, birthday cards, addressed mainly to herself and to her sister and brother. There were handmade cards made with excruciating care for her mother from the three of them. Pippa found no further cards from her father. As it should be.

The bottom of the box housed mainly letters, as well as childish drawings, and careful examples of early penmanship. Ripples of sadness, interspersed with happy memories washed through her as she lifted each memento out of its resting place. Pippa shuffled through a stack of airmail letters. Most bore the return address of her maternal grandmother. She placed them to one side, deciding to read through them at her leisure. Her heart ached. She had more than enough time now. Now that Mac was gone. Reading the letters would fill a few empty bedtime moments. The letters also represented all that was sane and cheerful of her childhood: visits and holidays with her grandmother. A woman who for all her no-nonsense practicality, exuded warmth and coziness. Pippa looked forward to reading her letters, the way her own mother must have done through all the topsy turvy years of her life.

Pippa’s fingers had reached the last paper in the box. It wasn’t onion skin thin like the other letters. This paper was thicker, rather like that of the speciality pads one buys at gift shops.

Pippa retrieved the single sheet. It was only part of a letter. The sheet was marked page two at the top. She glanced at the bottom of the page. It was simply signed, “Mom.”

The words in between were written in a neat, yet artistic cursive. They flowed across the page, giving the impression of earnestness on the part of the writer. But where was the first page? Pippa searched carefully through the letters and cards she’d removed, but without success. Reluctantly, she turned her attention back to the second page. She read through it twice as a familiar pain sliced through her her. Pippa could only come to one conclusion. The letter was an emotional plea written by a mother to a man who was about to do the worst thing a husband and father could ever do. The man who was her father.

***  

The letter seemed to widen the cracks in her inner being, as wave upon wave of sorrow, disappointment, and anger washed over her. They paralyzed her, pinning her to the bed she’d once thought of as a private paradise. That naive notion had been shattered by Mac’s admission. His lover had invaded their intimacy, and it could never be the same no matter how much he apologized or begged to be taken back. No. It would never be the same again. Mac could go shack up with her if he needed a place to sleep. The bed they’d shared could go to the landfill for all she cared. Yes, that would be a fitting place for the sad, sad relic that it was. Suddenly, she realized how much she had in common with the bed. The thought nearly crushed her: she was as unwanted; as abandoned as it was.

***

Frail sunlight woke her after an exhausted, desperate sleep. Sunday. The house seemed emptier and lonelier than ever on a day that used to be characterized by time spent together as a family. A snapshot of Mac laughing as he cooked breakfast for the lot of them popped into her mind. Then another of him washing all the dishes they’d made before herding them all to the family car to take them to church. Snapshots of a man who was forever gone. Dead.

Pippa showered, then changed into a print dress, more out of habit than anything else. Going to church was out of the question. Her stomach recoiled at the thought of bumping into Mac there, that fake hang-dog look on his face: supposedly all contrite and repentant. Clarissa would be there too with the kids. Her eyes tear-stained and pleading. Taking her father’s side of course.

Pippa grabbed her first coffee of the day along with a small folder and her car keys. She pushed her shoulders back as she checked her appearance in the hall mirror. It was time. Time to let him know how she felt.

***

“Pippa.” The elderly man rose slowly from his seat in the communal lounge. His eyes met hers and what he saw caused him to feel renewed sympathy for his daughter. “Come, let’s go to my room.” He excused himself from the Monopoly game he’d been playing and led the way slowly to his quarters. Pippa was as silent as a winter morning after the snow has fallen. He understood. Oh, how he wished he could undo his own past along with Mac’s own stupid sin, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t. All he could do was comfort his poor daughter as best he could. He knew he’d be a poor replacement for Kathleen: she was the one who Pippa really needed now. He’d do his best though. That much he owed to his sweet Kathleen.

Pippa sat woodenly on the armchair he’d kept for guests clutching something to her chest as though her life depended on it. He waited. When she still didn’t say anything, he asked, “What have you got there?”

Pippa’s eyes snapped angrily. “Questions, Dad.” She thrust the folder towards him then stood suddenly and began to pace about the room. “Like why Mom forgave you, and why you didn’t listen to your own mother’s desperate pleas.”

Ian quietly studied first the contents of the folder, then his daughter’s distraught face. He prayed for wisdom. Memories of redemption flooded his mind and heart as he scanned the words before him. “It was a miracle, Pippa. A miracle of God. Your mother allowed His mercy and love to heal us.” He looked at his daughter through tear-misted eyes. “One thing I know is that I certainly didn’t deserve that forgiveness: neither your mother’s, nor God’s. Later, I learned about the cross. I learned just how vast and all encompassing God’s forgiveness truly is. I fell to my knees then, and He forgave and saved me. Not only that, He gave me three more years to love your mother. Three golden years.”

“But she had cancer. She was suffering. How can you call them golden?” Pippa had stopped pacing.

Ian smiled gently. “They were made that way by Jesus Pippa. I don’t completely understand myself.”

Pippa jerked her finger at the letter. “And what of Gran? She died praying for us.”

“And it wasn’t in vain, Pippa. It wasn’t in vain. I listened to her pleas. I’m not the man I used to be Pippa. I wish I could convince you of that.” He reached over to his bedside table and retrieved a worn black Bible, then handed it wordlessly to Pippa. She took it reluctantly. He’d opened it, and she saw that the Bible was inscribed.

“As you know Ian, I’m not one for fancy words, but I want you to know how much I love you. Please never doubt my forgiveness. But more importantly, never doubt His.

Your Kathleen.”

“How, Dad? How does one forgive? How can I possibly forgive Mac? Tell me. How?” Her mother’s words blurred, but she could remember each one. Memories of her mother’s last years with them came back to her. She’d spent most of that time in frail care in this very building, with the man who’d shattered her world, living just down the hallway. Pippa remembered how peaceful and calm her mother had been. How she’d insisted that what had happened between herself and Pippa’s father was now forgiven and in the past. She’d encouraged Pippa to forgive and forget too on numerous occasions, but Pippa had struggled. The struggle had only intensified with Mac’s unfaithfulness. Forgiveness? It almost seemed like an unrealistic dream. She became aware of the comforting weight of her father's arm around her shoulders. He let her cry, saying nothing for a while, then handed her a large hanky as her sobs intensified.

“I know.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Just go ahead and cry it out honey. I know.”

Pippa jerked her head up. “How would you know Dad? Mom wasn’t the one who was unfaithful.” Her icy words jerked out of her throat.

Ian held her gaze. “You’re right, Pippa, but the pain I experienced was raw and real. It was the pain of a man who has hurt the only woman he has ever loved to the core.”

***

The sun was slowly sinking behind the mountains when Pippa finally got into her car. She sat for a long while and watched. And thought. And prayed. More tears fell, blurring the sunset this time, but before the sun could say goodnight, she started her car and headed towards her daughter’s house. She knew she’d find Mac there. With God’s help, perhaps they could find a new beginning too.

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Story copyright: Alison Lawrence 2024.

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More Free Poetry and Fiction, Plus Two Devotionals. (Short Stories and books.) Now available on Basket Of Hope.

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May God bless and keep you.

Alison

💖💖💖

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