Fog swirled through the trees, their fallen leaves weaving a red carpet over pavements and parked cars. Lianne turned up her coat collar, shielding her face from the crisp morning air as she strode towards her Ford Fiesta. While peeling slimy leaves from between the wipers, her fingers snagged on something different—papery and crinkled. A folded note. A single sentence: "I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner."
She gazed up and down the street, as if the messenger might still be lurking nearby, then immediately chided herself. She wasn’t exactly the type strangers hid in trees for. Turning the paper over, she checked for a name. Nothing.
This had to be a mistake. Whoever had left the note must have confused her car with someone else’s. But then, no one else in the neighbourhood drove a Ford Fiesta—the go-to choices were sleek Audis and Mini Coopers parked in front of the terraced houses. She wouldn’t have been able to afford the flat if Michael hadn’t settled things financially before leaving.
I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner. Could the note be from him?
She barked out a bitter laugh—her husband apologising was about as likely as these dead leaves turning lush again. And anyway, the handwriting was too delicate, nothing like the jagged scrawl on the love letter to his mistress she’d found stuffed in his jeans pocket. He’d probably thought himself clever for not leaving any traces on his phone but hadn’t considered who did his laundry.
Lianne traced the ink with her thumb. No, definitely not Tina’s either. She would always recognise her old friend's handwriting after years of copied homework. They had stopped talking when Tina got pregnant.
She couldn’t think of anyone else who might have left the note.
A miniature tornado of dappled foliage whirled across the street as a chill crept up her neck. It had been on an autumn day like this when her dad slumped over in his chair, Gardeners’ World still playing in the background. A year later, her mum had tripped on the stairs, breaking her leg. No one had expected complications during the routine procedure, but when they wheeled her out of the operating theatre, her brain was dead.
I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner…
An empty plastic bag drifted on the breeze, clinging to her boot. Lianne kicked it away. This wasn’t how regret worked. You couldn’t just brush it off like leaves from a windscreen. Regret was like a rash, flaring up whenever a ray of awareness grazed it.
…the missed opportunity to tell Mum that she had never hated her, despite her constant nagging…
Lianne started rubbing her chest.
…never letting Michael off the hook, even though she had known they weren’t right for each other long before he did…
Maybe she should drop the note right here—let it rot among the dead leaves at her feet.
...telling Tina how grateful she was for her friendship during those dark times when she felt hollow and bereaved of the life she had always envisioned. To tell her that she was genuinely happy for her becoming a mother, even though she herself—
A pain—different from the deep, radiating cramps which she had ignored for irreversibly too long—seized her. The scratching turned frantic as she lifted the note to her mouth.
There was no hesitation as Lianne parted her lips; as she shoved the crumpled note behind her teeth, pushing it as far back as it would go. It pressed against her palate, blocking the tight passage down her throat. Breathing through just her nose was difficult until saliva flooded her mouth, swelling and softening the cellulose fibres of the paper.
The hard lump turned into a mushy paste that tasted bitter and unnatural. She gagged, her eyes stinging with tears. But she swallowed nonetheless, the muscles of her oesophagus working the only way they knew, forcing everything down.
