February 15th, 1992
At home, England
I should be packing for tomorrow’s trip but instead, I’ve been poring over a short story I wrote last night about a girl who, two weeks before her wedding, receives a Valentine card from the first boy she loved. Not wishing to upset her Mother, the girl folds the card in half and stuffs it into the back pocket of her jeans, before returning to the kitchen, where her Mother has gone to great lengths to make the day special.
Over breakfast the girl and her Mother talk about their upcoming trip to Kenya and the animals they hope to see. Feeling like the card is boring a hole in her back pocket, the girl has a strong desire to run upstairs to her room and tear it open but her Mother has a lot to say, including how sad she feels because her daughter’s fiancé failed to send her a card. The girl makes a poor attempt at hiding her disappointment by reminding her Mother said fiancé is somewhere in the middle of the ocean but this seems to fall on deaf ears and the Mother continues to question why the fiancé didn’t “Plan ahead.”
After what feels like an eternity, the Mother finally stops with the questions and the girl is able to excuse herself. With a strong desire for privacy and no lock on her bedroom door, she escapes to the bathroom, where she perches on the edge of the old bathtub.
Slowly and deliberately, she opens the envelope and removes the card. Her breathing is out of whack and in an attempt to steady herself, she takes a deep breath before opening the card. Her eyes move to the all too familiar handwriting and the word, “Love” appears several times. Slowly tracing the letters of his name, she reads, not for the first time, the PS; “It’s not too late to change your mind.”
That’s as far as I got with the story. At least for now.