The flowery envelope

Mary hesitates. In her hand is a pink flowery envelope which hovers at the small slot on the red post box.

Why can't she just post it? It has taken almost 30 years to make the decision to contact her dad. Writing it down on paper is one thing, but it needs to arrive at it's destination. It won't be a confession if he doesn't read it.

So many years of mental conversations, turmoil and anxiety, trying to work out what to do. You can only feel guilty for so long, and quite frankly not owning up to her crime had ruined her life. She should never have done it. Since the incident, she couldn't trust her judgement anymore.

If she dropped it into the box, the deed was done. If she didn't then nothing changed.

She sat down on the bench in front of the post office by the little row of shops. She couldn't go home with it, she had to post it.

Suddenly after all the surety, she was unsure. Was this a good idea or a bad idea?

To be honest, just the act of writing the letter had uneased her. She sent emails all the time but proper letters on writing paper felt as old as the crime itself. Mary had gone into town to buy a writing set. She had stood in the middle of the high street scratching her head wondering where exactly you buy writing paper from these days? Could you actually buy writing paper anymore? Luckily, she had located some, it was a bit flowery for the occasion but it would have to do. The words were far more important than the roses in the top left hand corner.

Perhaps she should have sent an email.

Or perhaps she shouldn't try to contact him at all?

She shoved it back in her hand bag and went home, disappointed. Such a big build up and it was still in her possession.

Taking her cup of tea and letter out into the garden Mary sat at the round garden table. Maybe the letter wasn't quite right, maybe she should re write it? After all how did you write an apology that was almost 30 years late? She tore the envelope and opened up the letter.

I am sorry but it was me who stole the jewellery and the cash. I have felt bad for 29 years and now as I approach 60 years old, I need to let go of the guilt. I would like your forgiveness. I only did it out of necessity, not greed or excess. I was behind with the rent, John had left me with a baby to raise and we had no food in the cupboard. I also didn't want your new wife to get my mums jewellery so I took that as well. I staged the burglary, I was very careful about it, and it worked. You got the insurance money and I know mum's jewellery didn't mean much to you. You hardly mentioned her name after her death and you soon met someone new. I asked for help, some money to help me through and you said no. That was really difficult asking for help. And you rejected me.

It was a short letter and it just about fit on one side of the paper, but it still felt too much. It brought up a lot of emotions again. The grief, the rejection and the pain. But it felt a bit whiny. How should she phrase it? She put the note back in the envelope and went in to start dinner.

Mary slept badly, having some difficult dreams. She struggled at work and once she got home, she decided to lose some of the emotion and shorten the letter. She removed a couple of sentences and put it in the envelope. It felt better, a bit cleaner. Once it was posted, she would be able to sleep better.

With the newly written letter on another piece of flowery paper, she took the envelope to the post box. As she turned the corner, she saw the post man getting back in the little red van and driving away.

Drat.

She put it back in her handbag and went home, feeling very disappointed with herself.

Perhaps it was fate, she sat on the sofa and opened it, thinking maybe it was still too long and emotional. Her dad wasn't an emotional person and they rarely saw each other. He had a fourth wife now, and because they didn't have much in common, neither of them made much of an effort to pick up the phone.

She reduced the letter even further.

I am writing to confess that it was in fact me, who stole the jewellery, and the cash, 29 years ago. I staged the burglary. But I needed some money and you refused to help me. I am writing for your forgiveness.

The next morning, happy that the letter said all that she wanted it to, she put it in her handbag. She went into town to run some errands and would use the post office there. Maybe the one on the parade was spooked.

She marched up the post box, determined to post it but someone came up behind her reaching across her. She stepped to one side. If she was going to drop it into the box she needed to be un-rushed. She needed to savour the moment. People bustled by, and she stepped further back from the post box.

It was so ironic that staging the burglary had been impulsive, probably the last impulsive thing she had ever done. And now she couldn't make a decision. Stealing the money had changed her, she had surprised herself, but at the time she had been so desperate. Part of her felt that if her dad wasn't going to willingly help her when she asked, then she would just have to take the money. The jewellery wasn't part of the plan but she was grieving and didn't want that awful woman to wear any of her mums things.

A rage swept through her, she felt a bit wobbly and sat down on the seats outside the charity shop. If her dad hadn't been so mean she wouldn't have taken the money. He should have helped her out. Maybe he owed her an apology. She had leant her own children money when they needed it. They never took advantage and always paid it back. Life was sometimes tough and she was happy to help them.

Why hadn't her dad helped her?

Why did she need forgiveness from him?

Would he forgive her, or would he be angry? Or maybe he would just laugh at her?

If she hadn't taken the money, she might have led a very different life, it hung over her. It made her question her own values. She didn't trust her own decision making? I mean who stages a burglary and steals from their own family? But if he had just lent her some money she wouldn't have done it.

Her blood pressure was rising, she could feel the old anger and the rejection suffocating her. He could have been a better parent. He obviously didn't care about her. So why did she seek his forgiveness?

She stood up and tore the flowery envelope in half, then half again into smaller pieces and walked over the bin and posted it through the slot.

She stood still, staring at the bits of flowery paper in the bin. It was over, she didn't need his forgiveness, she didn't need to confess. She needed to get on with the rest of her life.

With a new lightness, she walked through the shopping precinct. She would treat her self to some lunch and take some time to absorb what had just happened. She had made a good decision, she had trusted her instincts.

From now on she would be kind to herself.