Sorting the mail was a daily tradition for me and my husband.

It was my fault really. After years of moving around due to the nature of my husbands job I’d made a lot of friends

and kept in touch with an impressive amount of them. It was the ones from home I’d lost time for. But after our

children left home and the house began to ego we moved back to where we grew up.

“do we need any more home insurance?” My husband James crushed a wad of junk mail between his hands.

“no of course not”

“then why do we get all this!” he dramatically missed the bin and they landed in the dogs water bowl spraying an

unhappy beagle with cold water. Not seeing the humorous side of it he grunted and grabbed a tea towel.

I smiled and pretended not to notice the side show as the man I married scrambled around picking up soggy

envelopes followed inconspicuously by our dog.

After separating my mail from his and then the hand written letters from the catalogues. I began

sauntering through the hand written letters. The penultimate of the hand written letters was written in an

unmistakeable script. My heart fell as I saw it. I couldn’t remember how many years it had been since my daughter

had spoken either of us. What for most children is a rebellious phase became a lifestyle for our Lucy.

Maybe finally, as James had always said she would, she had settled down.

I was as excited as I was wary. Holding it in both hands, still unopened, turned my back on James and the dog to

read it. Though he had already absolved himself and was reading the paper. Once the letter was stripped of the

envelope I felt my chest get heavy and my wit trying to escape me. Two long breaths later I unfolded it in my

hands. I made the mistake of pausing and nostalgia crept through my strong hold. Memories of baby Lucy

consumed my senses. Toys, noises and old forgotten games were being un-dusted and rehearsed. Her chubby little

hands that for the first three years of her life had barely left mine. It was hard to believe they became the thin

angular hands that had written this letter.

Upon reading the letter my heart seemed to stop and my thoughts with it. Regaining myself I thought of what words to choose to tell the family. But whatever their reactions were going to be I couldn’t confine my joy that for

the first time in nearly a decade our youngest was coming home.

“do you think she’ll be blonde again?” James’ reaction was less than dramatic. I handed him

the letter as if it would make the news more profound. He didn’t seem to think so. I monitored him as he read

through it.

“Good” he concluded and replaced the letter in my hand.

“is that all?”

“she’s our daughter, it isn’t strange for her to visit” though he was wrong, I wished he was right and for the

preservation of this normality I stopped arguing. “ Funny she married Marian’s son.”

It was. Marian O’Donovan was my oldest friend. Back in those winsome school days Marian and I had been best

friends. She was the daughter of the headmistress and for that we were ostracised. Being her only friend and her

mine made us thick as thieves. I shared almost all my youths experiences with her, we even courted and married

within weeks of each other. But it was getting married that caused us losing touch and it wasn’t until Lucy brought

Marian’s son Dylan home to meet us that the friendship was rekindled.

It was Marian (via her son) who kept us updated with Lucy’s well being. If it wasn’t for them then I think we

would have been haunted with what ifs and the desire to find her. Which probably would have been a mistake. It

was Marian who persuaded us to let Lucy come home on her own. And finally we were being rewarded. It seems

like there was no word full enough for the warmth I felt.

Suddenly all the emotions I felt were impossible to conceal. I wanted to call Marian and my two sons, I wanted

to sit down, I wanted to cook Lucy’s favourite dinner but unable to decide on anything I just sat the excitement

buzzing in my stomach. Stomach still buzzing a week later, I sat waiting for my daughter to arrive.

I was alone, waiting not only for my daughter, but also the guests to arrive. James had gone out to the supermarket

to get more wine. As usual it only took a day or two for the news of her return to get round to anyone who cared.

Subsequently we were bombarded with phone calls and ended up inviting a dozen people over, who then

invited a dozen more until it was officially a welcome home party. Not the usual greeting for a runaway but we

didn’t feel we had a choice. It served its purpose in distracting us from worrying about what we would say to Lucy

or predicting what she would say to us.

I had nothing left to do. No cooking. No cleaning. No late invitations to family we’d forgotten and no time to do

anything other than wait. Though I had been doing it ten years already, that day it felt harder than ever. Worry

that she would change her mind, worry that we would have to begin learning to cope without her all over again.

“This should be a happy time“. I said it loudly enough for me to believe it and I fought to keep my thoughts in that

persuasion.

Footsteps. I didn’t hear a car so it must be someone local. I could see through the frosted glass of the door that it

was Gene from next door and her daughter Nancy.

Nancy had grown up with Lucy and was the polar opposite of her. Nancy had blonde hair, good morals and a

sense of ambition about her. Lucy had short scruffy coloured hair, made bad decisions and seemed not to care

about much; especially her future. But they both found something in the other that seemed to fascinate them and I

had a feeling Nancy was one of the things that made it hard for Lucy to leave. Which had made me of late mildly

jealous of Nancy, something me and Lucy had in common.

“Come in! Sorry to say you’re the first.” Waving them in not wanting to chat, having newly prepared myself for

greeting my daughter, I hurried them into the garden. Quickly sorted a drink for myself only so they would feel

comfortable to

do so in my absence and left them to return to my seat. After the door had been opened to six different parties of

people none of which were Lucy or James I began to feel my feet itch. I wanted to go for a walk and escape the

noise of the half full party and arrive back an hour later to have everyone there already, no suspence necessary on my

part. It wasn’t long till I was waiting in the hallway. The stairs were so awkward to sit

on I decided to wait in the front garden. Make it look like I was collecting lavender so as not to look impatient or tense. A

perfect plan if you forget the party guests but it wasn’t long till I was collected by a tipsy Curate and gently forced

to talk about vineyards with him. Though I know nothing about them myself.

Footsteps. It must be them, I needed it to be them. I moved from the Curates tipsy lecture to the hallway.

Through the frosted glass I could recognise my husband with his arm around our Lucy. I could always pick her out

of a crowd and even through the

frosted glass I could see my little girl. Fighting the urge to step back I opened the door.

Once open I gazed upon something so wonderful I could not help but

gasp. In front of me were four people. James with his arm around Lucy, Dylan carrying the wine and someone I

had never met was cradled in Lucy’s arms. The past was erased with an exchange of smiles as the baby was passed

to me.

“Thanks mum”