Not Yet

The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which Daphne would always remember because she had been making bread and she had flour on her hands when she went to the door, and she did not put it down until she had read it three times.

The envelope was addressed to her. The handwriting was her father's. She sat down on the front step of the Shannon farmhouse — the same step where she had sat as a child watching Old Joseph walk across the yard every morning — and she read it again. Two words. Not yet.