This is a one shot that came to me today, and for the first time it what feels like ages, I was able to write the words. I apologise in advance if this is terrible. As usual I'm sorry for spelling and grammar issues. I really hope this is ok!
There's nothing overly special about the envelope. It looks so inoffensive sitting there on the side; completely unaware of the effect its contents could have. Not that she is giving the inanimate object thoughts and feelings of course, but still she doesn't understand how it can just be. It could be nothing. She could open it and find that there is nothing inside; or that whatever is inside is of no importance. And opening it ends the hope; the chance that there is something inside.
She can't recall how it came to be there; waiting for her, tormenting her. She wishes the story of how she came to find it was more exciting, but it had been one of those mundane things. Her fingers had just brushed the surface of it when she had been cleaning. It had to have been there months; he had been gone months now; but somehow she had never chanced upon it, and nor had the girls. Though that was hardly surprising really, cleaning was not really their forte. She had known instantly that it was his, though there was only the lightest mark on the paper's surface; as though he had started to write but then abandoned it. Had he planned to find it out and finish it? Just one more thing that he had left behind. She had held it in her hands, traced a shaking finger over the mark. Imagining the pen in his hand; heard for a moment her own voice calling him away.
How it came to be here; in her room though, is much more of a mystery. She cannot remember setting it down. But now her eyes are fixed on it as though waiting for it to react it some way. He could be contained inside, waiting to jump out at her, his face dancing with a smile at the joke he has played. But of course that is impossible. She will never again see that smile, or feel the touch of his lips against hers; his strong arms pulling her against him as though nothing more could hurt her; not with him there to protect her.
She is giving too much power to the envelope. But whatever is inside he will have no opportunity to explain. She may be left with more questions, with no chance of an answer. But she knows that it will drive her insane to keep at this unmatched staring contest. In the end she will lose.
Now would be the best time, she tells herself. The girls are not home and won't be for a few hours at least. There is nothing to disturb or distract her from this task, and she knows that until she opens it, she will get nothing else done.
Shakily she pushes herself up in to a standing position; her body momentarily protesting stiffly. How long had she been sitting there? She doesn't know. Time has no bearing for her right now. She moves as though she is trudging through sludge. Each movement is slow and laboured, and though it is but a few paces to where the envelope lies, it seems to take her a lifetime. When finally her fingers pluck it from its resting place, she finds herself staring transfixed at the way the envelope flutters in her shaking hand.
She stumbles her way back to her bed; instincts guiding her when her senses fail. The envelope weighs heavily in her hand. Once seated she manipulates it through her fingers, as though whatever is inside will be absorbed that way. She is delaying the moment, but she knows it draws ever nearer.
The finger that slips beneath the envelopes flap is cautious. Her movements as delicate as she can manage for fear of damage something which he had touched. She isn't normally so sentimental, and yet she cannot seem to move past the fact that this could be from his last days; that part of him still lingers on that surface.
Her caution in opening is matched by how gently she removes the contents. She stares for a moment at the sheets of paper she holds, eyes barely able to focus on the marks made upon it. It is squiggles and shapes, which only morph into words following her frantic blinking. And then she is lost in the writing that is so uniquely his. The writing that she would know anywhere. She doesn't make sense of what she reads, but instead sees him writing. She sees the way he forms each letter, the look of concentration on his face as he does so. There are flaws, she sees, where his hand has shaken. It is an uncommon feature of his hand, and it takes her by surprise. She touches the places where for a moment emotion must have taken over, and caused that minor imperfection. How it may have riled him had he looked back at what he had written, but he may never had had chance to do so. She sees her own name, and touches that too. As he fingers brush each letter, she imagines him speaking. How many different ways could he say her name? How much does she long to hear him speak it once more? The answers are infinite.
Her breathing comes in shudders, and still she has not really read it. She forces her eyes to focus much more, drawing her gaze up to the first line.
Dear Baby Bellamy
Her heart for a moment seems to stop beating, a lump lodging itself firmly in the back of her throat. She isn't sure she can do this, and yet she has come too far now. Unconsciously her free hand slips to her abdomen; flat beneath her clothing. It should be rounded now; swollen with their baby. John would be moving; kicking out legs to let her know of his presence. He hadn't known, of course, that there baby was to be his son; that she had named him John.
I am your father.
She swallows hard. She had never expected him to take to the idea of fatherhood as he did. She had never expected him to want this baby. In some ways she is glad he didn't have to face the pain of what had happened. He had been spared watching the cramps worsen; the contractions that brought her pregnancy to its end. He had not had to see the tiny precious boy who she hadn't been able to keep safe.
I read somewhere that I said write to you. Your mum would laugh at the thought of me doing this; so I am trusting you little Bellamy to keep this a secret between us. I have a reputation to uphold, thank you very much.
But she knew. Not that he had written this letter of course, but that he had scoured the internet. It was how he had come to possess those ridiculous bump buds. Though she is equally ridiculous in that they are now nestled in a drawer. She has no need for them now, but she cannot let them go. They hold a memory so precious that she almost has to check that they are still there.
Between you and your mum I'm going to have quite a task on my hands. I can already see the changes in the way the Mill staff look at me. They know that your mum has this power over me that I can't explain. I know that you are a part of her, Little Bellamy, but until you see her, meet her, you won't truly understand what I mean. Emma, your mum, she is one of a kind.
She feels the tears begin to fall; the wetness of them trickles down her cheeks. Her throat has constricted, and she wonders how there can be any oxygen circulating through her veins now. She is certain she hasn't been able to breathe now for some time. Her hand is still against her abdomen. A hand in to which little John had fit. There was barely anything too him and yet he had already been such a presence.
It doesn't really make sense that Emma would want to be with me. The very thought of it is something impossible, and yet here we are – with you on the way. Our baby. How could we ever have known going in to that 40 day date that we would end up as parents? How lucky I am to have her, and now you as well. I think Emma's hormones may have affected me, more than her, by the sap of these words. Forgive me, Little Bellamy, for I can imagine the look of teenage disgust on your face. But it is true. I am lucky. Some would say we are too old, but what do they know?
In the end though, she was left alone. It was not the future that he had envisaged. They never could have predicted the way things went. Who would have expected the pair of them to end up expecting a baby? She had feared the looks and words of her colleagues. It wasn't the done thing, but then when was anything with her. Life never took the path that she expected.
I would have shouted it from the rooftops. I would have let the world know that this incredible woman wanted me, and more than that we were going to be a family. I am far from perfect, Little Bellamy. Again that is to be a secret between us. I have made mistakes. Some big; some small. But too many to mention. All things considered I am undeserving. You and Emma are my second chance – and I am so thankful. I don't know what I have done to deserve that.
She could have told him. She could have whispered the words in to his ear. She was a flawed as he, perhaps moreso. But he was a good man, and it was she who was undeserving. It was why she was alone now. He had paid the ultimate price for it though, and that he hadn't deserved. Nor had he deserved the devastation of knowing his baby had died. The loss of that dream he held.
But I want her to know how much she matters. She doesn't understand how much I care for her, Little Bellamy. I don't think she sees herself as I see her, and I don't know how to enable her to see through my eyes. I want to make things official between us; not because it is the "right" thing to do but because I want to her to know that this is real. We are real. I want her to know that this isn't a fleeting thing; a knee-jerk reaction to you and our "situation". I want her to understand that my love, I don't tell that I love her enough Little Bellamy, is forever.
She can remember exactly how he said those words, but she tries to force her mind not to replay them. It causes such a torrent of emotion in her; each one vying for pole position. They crash over her in a wave, until she is drowning. At times she thinks she is losing him all the more; the sound of his voice blurring at the edges, but at others it comes to her unbidden, and she is almost tricked in to thinking he is in the room beside her.
That was one mistake I made, though it wasn't entirely a mistake. I asked your mum to marry me, Little Bellamy, but I didn't do it in the right way. I should have asked her how she deserved to be asked. I should have taken her out; somewhere romantic, although now she cannot have alcohol she may not enjoy it quite so much. Perhaps a picnic, just the two – or I suppose three – of us. That way I can make sure all of the food is safe for her, and you. I have you to thank for all of this, Little Bellamy. I have my chance. But it is not just because of you. Even if you weren't here, and I am so thankful you are, I would want to call her my wife. My Emma.
My Emma. The words dance before her eyes. He had proposed again, or so she presumed. In the moment after finding out their baby had died. Oh he had his moments but she feels the corners of her lips turn up ever so slightly.
Perhaps you will be here when we marry. I think she will want to wait until after; when her figure has returned to normal. Another secret, little one, I look forward to seeing how you change her. Already I can see the differences, but soon she will not be able to disguise your presence. I hope you are kind to her, not that you have been to this point. You seem to have issues with a great number of foods. But she will grow as you do, and she will be all the more beautiful. I never knew that could be possible, but it is.
She herself had dreamt of their wedding. It was two nights after she had delivered John, when her sleep had come fragments. She had seen herself dressed in an (unsuitable considering) white dress, and she had walked down the aisle, catching sight of friends and colleagues watching her. She had not been able to read the look in their eyes. The groom at the end had been blurred, but she had known it was him. She had felt his love, his smile. And then the aisle seemed to grow longer, he moved further away from her with each step she took. She had woke up with his name caught in her throat, desperate to scream but unable to make a sound.
We will be happy. We won't be perfect. You will get frustrated with us, and us with you. But we will love each other. I cannot wait to hold you in my arms. There are so many stories I want to tell you; so many places I want you to see. I want to give you everything that I never had. I want to be there for you … always. You and your mum. It will be hard. I know you will keep us up at night, and you will disturb my ordered world, but it will all be worth it. Because we will be happy.
She can barely make out the words now through the tears. She fears that they will smudge his words, destroying them so she holds the paper as far from her as she can. She knows she is nearly at the end, and she feels the shattered remnants of her heart splintering further.
And one day, Little Bellamy, I might not be here. I hope it is when you are grown. I want to see your mum with her hair grey, and to smile with her as we look back on a life well lived. We have both waited so long; to find our way to each other, that we deserve forever. I hope when that day comes you know. You know what I have come to know in life; a truth I have learnt only in recent times. We love you so, Little Bellamy.
They are together. It keeps her going; the thought of her fragile little John cradled in his strong arms.
Your mum is calling me now, and I must go to here. This is between us – you and me, Little Bellamy, will be a team. How will she ever resist us?
She can imagine now his smirk, and her own smile widens. She would have been powerless against the two of them. They would've made her life a living hell – and yet it kills her a little each day to know that this life no longer exists for her.
I cannot wait to meet you, Little Bellamy. I love you. I love you both. I don't know how to express how deeply I feel it, but it is there. I hope you know it. I hope she knows it. I love you. I love you.
She cannot ignore the sound of his voice now. He is there by her side saying the words. They surround her.
Your Daddy, Howard.
She doesn't really see the final words. She is lost in his voice. She cannot control the sobs that emit from her. The desperation to feel his arms around her is overpowering. His voice is so close, so real and yet she cannot feel the weight of his arm dropped around her. She cannot feel his chest against her cheek, or hear the beat of his heart. But the sound of him. He could be there in the room. I love you. I love you. He is saying it and yet he is not here. He is not here to comfort her; to hold her. He cannot hear her sobs, or the words that are ripped from her throat.
"I love you too,"