A Letter To My Love

By Sarah Cameron

A letter to a lost son from a grieving mother. A letter from a remorseful lover to his partner. A love that brought two people together, and then tore a family apart. This is the story of how love, loss, devotion, illness and betrayal destroy, yet immortalise a simple relationship, spoken through the written words of two people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781326018689

Sarah Cameron

After a degree in Latin American Studies, Sarah Cameron has been travelling and writing on the region ever since, both as an economist and as an author for Footprint. Initially moonlighting for the South American Handbook, while working for a British bank, in 1990 she parted company with the world of finance and has been contributing to the expansion of Footprint titles ever since. Sarah now concentrates solely on the Caribbean and is the author of several titles on the islands. When she is not travelling around the Caribbean sampling beaches and rum cocktails, she retreats to her 17th-century farmhouse in rural Suffolk.

Book preview

A Letter To My Love

A Letter To My Love:

To my dearest son,

I never got the chance to hold you, little one. Not really. And I know our lives now only intersect intermediately, but I want you to know about your Daddy, and how special he was, and how much he loved you. Both of us.

But he was sad, darling, so sad. And I don’t want you to hear this from anyone else, so hear this from me. The story of James. The story of Daddy.

Love, always

Mummy

Chapter One:

James changed after Ben. I didn’t see it at first. We both had busy lives, and he wasn’t the most emotive of men, even at the best of times. But slowly, over a few months, James changed. He was still the man I loved and cared for. He still smiled when I walked in the door after work, and made dinner for us both if I’d had a bad day. He spent hours at the bank and then wouldn’t mind about being dragged out to the pub for another few hours. But every once in a while, I would look up, and in those beautiful brown eyes I would see a flicker. A flicker of something fearful, something dangerous. Something that wasn’t James. Or at least, not the James I knew.

The first time it happened was the evening after Ben’s funeral. I was dressed in a tight fitting slate black pencil skirt and shirt that I occasionally wore for work, with jet-black heels to match. I decided against a veil, and I lent Mrs Stone my only black hat. As a result, my shoulder length blonde hair – which I only put up for work – became tangled in the October breeze. At the burial, he was solemn and silent, with an expressionless face and tight lips. Only slight stubble and a hunched back indicated his grief, and then only I would notice it. He spent the service and burial holding onto his mother, who wept continuously. His