Dear bag snatcher,

Fifteen years ago, on the night of my 50th birthday party, a huge gathering took place at a local venue (name of hotel with the Editor). Some years earlier, my husband Tom Breathnach died suddenly on the summit of Maolwree Mountain in Co Mayo. He had a six-year-old son and much-loved friends and family. As widows know, to share such a loss with anyone who has not had direct experience is almost impossible. Those early days were the most challenging of times and so the party, without a shadow of doubt, assured my little lad that we were not alone. Thank you everyone.

Gifts had been carefully selected with many guests handing me an envelope which contained birthday cards. I was advised not to open the cards until I got home. As my leather bag filled up with more and more cash-filled cards, I knew the next few months would be less of a financial strain and I was full of gratitude. The night was brilliant, with varying performances from my talented friends. I felt joy when my young son walked in carrying a cake glowing with candles. He looked happy and proud to have a role. He was swanning around the dance floor before he gave me the big surprise.

After the hotel party my home was warm and welcoming and music continued into the early hours. I was the hostess; so I busied self with hospitable tasks akin to any house party. Soon, gladly and gratefully it was time to open the various gifts and read the card cards. Honestly, I couldn’t wait to count the cash.

But my leather bag was gone. Snatched! Before I get to the contents, the bag itself was special. It was hand-made at Galway’s leather shop, then situated in Prospect Hill. It matched a specially made brief case. Both leather bags were a one-off creative design. Even more moving was the graciousness of the elderly owner of the shop. He had given it to me as a gift in 1994, as I was visiting Australia to represent Ireland at a multicultural event in Adelaide.

Now to the contents of the bag. As days passed and investigations continued, further complications developed. The last family photo of Tom, with myself and Iarfhlaith, was gone. Other important items and phone numbers were missing. My cash-filled purse was also in the bag, along with a cheque book. I intended sorting the hotel bill early in the evening; but before any knowledge of the snatched bag became apparent, my kind brothers had paid the bill as part of the celebrations.

A few days later as people heard the news, they rang telling me what the envelopes contained. We knew the bag snatcher was a wealthy thief. I hope you see this letter; it may well be brought to your attention as can happen directly or indirectly by fate, helped by the Sunday

Independent. Eventually, irrefutable evidence came to light. It’s enough to know that I’m not alone with the information. I’m taking this opportunity for closure by telling you: I know who you are. Maire Holmes, An Spideal, Gaillimh