Sarah Beckett stared at the contents of the parcel one last time before closing the four flaps and sealing them with brightly coloured tape. She pictured her father smiling before opening the parcel then the smile fading as he realised who it was from.
Sarah knew he’d recognise the handwriting in the letter but not on the brown paper she’d use to cover the parcel, the words plain enough to have been written by anyone, although having ‘Dad’ on the outside wouldn’t have given the game away.
Sniffing, she reached over for a tissue and caught her arm on the rough top of the sellotape dispenser. Yelping, she recoiled her arm and rubbed the scratched skin.
The parcel tucked safely in to her handbag, Sarah headed off on the ten-minute journey to the top of the nearby main road where a post office was nestled between a bakery and newsagents. Instead of walking straight though, she took a right and continued until she reached the gates of the local park.
Spotting a free bench, she brushed aside some crumbs, and sat, blowing out a puff of air as she did so. She pulled out the parcel, closed her bag and put it between her feet, wiggling them closer until the bag felt tight between them.
She stared at the writing, her writing, and shook her head. “Sorry, Dad. Can’t do this.” She put the parcel on the bench and walked away.
*
Sarah didn’t turn round to see the man pick up her parcel and take it to another bench further down the hopscotch-chalked the path.