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    The letter, contemplated and worried about for such a long time, was finally written. But it was not mailed. Instead it was put in a drawer of the desk so that it could be thought about, the words carefully reconsidered before that last irretrievable step was taken.      The following morning the letter was read once more, corrected and locked away for the second time. On the third day it was perused again and the words deftly edited. Satisfied that everything had been said clearly and concisely, the writer copied the final draft on a fresh piece of writing paper. This was folded, sealed in an envelope, addressed, and affixed with the correct stamps. The words air mail were written in the top left-hand corner of the envelope, which was then propped against the antique French clock on the desk.       A short while later, the young son of the cook was summoned to the upstairs sitting room. The envelope was handed to him, instructions given, and he was told to take it to the post office at once.            The boy left the villa immediately, waving to the gardener as he trotted through the iron gates of the old-style Turkish yali. This was situated on the Asiatic side of Istanbul, on the shores of the Bosphorus, in Üsküdar, the largest and most historical district of the city.      As he walked in the direction of the post office, the boy held the letter tightly in his hand, proud that he had been given such an important task by his father’s employer. He was only ten, but everyone said he was capable, and this pleased him.      A light, balmy breeze wafted inland from the sea, carry ing with it the hint of salt and the sounds of continuous hooting from one of the big cruise ships now plowing its way down the Bosphorus, heading toward the Black Sea and new ports of call.      The boy hurried on, intent in his purpose, remembering his instructions. . . . The letter must be put in the box marked international. It was going to America. He must not make the mistake of using the one which was for domestic mail. He was soon leaving the shoreline behind, walking up the long road called Halk Caddesi. The post office was at the top, and within minutes he found the letter box marked international and dropped the letter in the slot. He then retraced his steps.      When the Bosphorus was in his line of vision once more, the boy began to run; he was soon pushing open the gates of the yali, heading for the kitchens. He found his father preparing lunch, and dutifully reported that he had posted the letter. His father picked up the phone, spoke to his employer, then ruffled his son’s hair, smiling down at him. He rewarded him with pieces of Turkish delight on a saucer.      The boy went outside, sat on the step in the sunshine, munching the delicious sweetmeat. He sat there daydreaming, had no way of knowing that the letter he had just mailed would change many lives forever. And so drastically they would never be the same again.      The writer of the letter knew this. But the consequences were of no consideration. Long ago, a terrible wrong had been done. The truth was long overdue. Finally it had been revealed, and if there was retribution then so be it. What mattered most was that a wrong could be righted. 

From Letter from a Stranger by Barbara Taylor Bradford. Copyright © 2011 by the author and reprinted by permission of St. Martin’s Press, LLC.