The Letter She Never Sent

Aunt Vera was moving to a smaller flat in the village, and Tom had offered to help. He had not offered to pay for the van. He had offered his time.

"My time is worth more than any van," he told her on the phone.

"Good," said Vera. "Then you can carry the bed."

By lunch he had carried the bed, four chairs and a great many of Vera's opinions into the street. Under the bed there was a box, and at the bottom of the box there was a letter. It was in Vera's writing, and it had never been opened. On the front was the name of a man in Canada, Mr Harold Fenwick.

Tom opened it. Inside there was only one word: "Yes."

"Who is Harold Fenwick?" he said.

Vera was quiet for a moment. "He asked me to marry him," she said. "I was very young. He had a job waiting in Canada, and he said, 'Write to me. If the answer is yes, I will send you a ticket.'"

"And the answer was yes."

"The answer was yes."

"So why did you never send it?"

Vera looked at him. "Tom. Do you know what it cost to send a letter to Canada?"

Tom thought about it. "A lot," he said.

"A lot. So I decided to wait until I had more news. Then I could put everything in one letter and pay once."

Tom said that was the right thing to do. He meant it. It was what he would have done.

He found his phone. A minute later his face changed.

"Harold Fenwick," he said. "Aunt Vera, he has hotels. A lot of hotels. If you had sent that letter, you would be a very rich woman now."

"I expect so."

"If you had sent that letter," said Tom, a little faster, "you would be living in a big house by the sea. With people to carry your bed."

"Probably."

"If you had sent that letter," said Tom, and now he had to hold the wall, "I would have a rich aunt in Canada. With hotels. I could be staying in one now. For free."

"If I had sent that letter," said Vera, "you would not be eating my lunch every week, would you?"

Tom looked at the letter in his hand. "I wish you had paid for it," he said. "If only you had paid for it."

"So do I, sometimes," said Vera. She took the letter and held it for a moment. "I wish I had sent it."

Tom was on his phone again. "He returned to England ten years ago," he said slowly. "His wife died. He lives in a big house by the lake, half an hour from here."

Vera did not say anything.

"We could send it now," said Tom.

"Do you know what it costs to send a letter now?" said Vera.

Tom did. He had an idea that cost nothing at all.

At four in the afternoon, Tom stood by the van at the end of a long garden by the lake, and watched his aunt walk to the door with the letter in her hand. An old man opened it. He read the one word inside for a long time. Then he looked at Vera.

"Sixty years," he said. "You could have sent it."

"I know," said Vera. "But this way it was free."