Hand Delivered

“Answer that Ernie,” a soft, female voice speaks to her husband.  Ernie flicks on the hallway light and pulls his woollen, cardigan around his shoulders.  His left hand fumbles and slowly unclicks the brass door lock.

Outside, Margi holds on tightly to a brown, creased envelope, recently given by her beloved mother.  Ironically an envelope that provided life, just hours before her mother’s had sadly ebbed away.  

Many times Margi had pushed for details about her father.  He was a salesman, one night stand, no details are known, was the same reply.  Now at 57 years of age, Margi had an address and initials; E.M.

Click, the blue, painted door opens.  “Yes?” enquires the rounded man, his gruff voice continues: “Speak.”

 “I’m so sorry to disturb you,” replies Margi, raising the brown envelope in her left hand.  Margi clears her throat.

Lainey Hesketh
Feb 21 2021

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