Arnold sat in his aged recliner, the leather split from years of wear, with his tabby cat Joe purring sweetly in his lap. At 92, his fingers weren’t as steady as they had were, but they still made their way through Joe’s orange fur, finding solace in the old silence.
He flipped through pages of recollections, each one like a stab to his heart.
“Look at him here, missing those front teeth. Mariam made him that superhero cake he wanted so badly. I still remember how his eyes lit up!” His voice caught.
As Arnold ran his grizzled fingers along the wall, where pencil lines still marked his children’s heights, he muttered, “The house remembers them all, Joe.”
Each line held a poignant memory as his fingers lingered on it. “That one over there? That is from Bobby’s baseball practice indoors. He wiped his tears and laughed wetly, “Mariam was very upset.”
“But she couldn’t stay angry when he gave her those puppy dog eyes. ‘Mama,’ he’d say, ‘I was practicing to be like Daddy.’ And she’d just melt.”
That evening, he sat at his kitchen table, the old rotary phone before him like a mountain to be climbed.
“Hi, Dad. What is it?”
“Jenny, dear, I was thinking about the Halloween costume you wore as a princess. Remember how you created me the dragon? You were adamant about preserving the kingdom. You claimed that if a princess had her father, she would not require a prince—
“Listen, Dad, I’m in a really important meeting. I don’t have time to listen to these old stories. Can I call you back?”
The dial tone buzzed in his ear before he could finish talking. One down, four to go.
“I miss you, son.” Arnold’s voice broke, years of loneliness spilling into those four words. “I miss hearing your laugh in the house. Remember how you used to hide under my desk when you were scared of thunderstorms? You’d say ‘Daddy, make the sky stop being angry.’ And I’d tell you stories until you fell asleep—”
A pause, so brief it might have been imagination. “That’s great, Dad. Listen, I gotta run! Can we talk later, yeah?”
Two weeks before Christmas, Arnold witnessed Ben’s family arrive next door.
The desk was overloaded with five cream-colored stationery sheets, five envelopes, and five opportunities to bring his family home. A thousand pounds of hope seemed to weigh down each sheet.
Arnold huddled against the chilly December weather the following morning, holding five sealed letters close to his breast like priceless jewels. His cane tapped a lonesome cadence on the icy pavement, making every step to the post office seem like a mile.
Paula, the postal worker who had known Arnie for thirty years, said, “Special delivery, Arnie?” As he handed over the letters, she feigned not to notice the trembling in his palms.
Paula, letters to my kids. I want them to spend Christmas at home. Paula’s eyes clouded over with the optimism in his voice. Over the years, she had witnessed him mail innumerable letters, and she had seen his shoulders sag somewhat with every holiday.
Martha from next door appeared with fresh cookies.
“Hush now, Arnie. When was the last time you climbed a ladder? Besides, this is what neighbors do. And this is what family does.”
As they worked, Arnold retreated to his kitchen, running his fingers over Mariam’s old cookbook. “You should see them, love,” he whispered to the empty room. “All here helping, just like you would have done.”
The waiting began.
“Maybe they got delayed,” Martha whispered to Ben on their way out, not quite soft enough. “Weather’s been bad.”
“The weather’s been bad for five years,” Arnold murmured to himself after they left, staring at the five empty chairs around his dining table.
The turkey he’d insisted on cooking sat untouched, a feast for ghosts and fading dreams. His hands shook as he reached for the light switch, age and heartbreak indistinguishable in the tremor.
Suddenly, a loud knock came just as he was about to turn off the porch light, startling him from his reverie of heartbreak.
“Hi, I’m Brady.”
“I’m new to the neighborhood, and I’m actually making a documentary about Christmas celebrations around here. If you don’t mind, can I—”
Arnold released his statement with harsh bitterness as he uttered “Nothing to film here.” The space holds nothing but an elderly gentleman and his pet cat who await dead spirits that will never return. No celebration worth recording. GET OUT!”
Brady suddenly stopped the doorway with his foot when he called out to the officer. I have no interest in sharing my sad story with you. The passing of my parents happened two years back. Car accident. The experience of living in a deserted house during holiday seasons is something I personally understand. The quiet maintains such intensity that it becomes painful to the point of discomfort. How every Christmas song on the radio feels like salt in an open wound. The way you prepare a festive setting for those who will never attend creates an empty atmosphere.
Arnold’s fingers slid from the door, his rage fading into common despair.
In Brady’s eyes, he saw not pity but understanding, the kind that only comes from walking the same dark path.
True to his word, Brady returned less than 20 minutes later, but not alone.
The house that had echoed with silence suddenly filled with warmth and laughter.
As days turned to weeks and weeks to months, Brady became as constant as sunrise, showing up with groceries, staying for coffee, and sharing stories and silence in equal measure.
In him, Arnold found not a replacement for his children, but a different kind of blessing and proof that sometimes love comes in unexpected packages.
The morning Brady found him, Arnold looked peaceful in his chair, as if he’d simply drifted off to sleep. Joe sat in his usual spot, watching over his friend one last time.
The funeral drew more people than Arnold’s birthdays ever had.
Brady watched as neighbors gathered in hushed circles, sharing stories of the old man’s kindness, his wit, and his way of making even the mundane feel magical.
When Brady rose to give his eulogy, his fingers traced the edge of the plane ticket in his pocket — the one he’d bought to surprise Arnold on his upcoming 94th birthday.
“Dear children,
I will be gone by the time you read this. Brady has assured me that these letters would be mailed after my departure. He is a decent boy. When I most needed a son, I discovered him. I want you to know that I long ago forgave you. Life becomes hectic. That makes sense to me now. But I am hoping you will remember me when you are old and your own kids are too busy to call. With love, not with sorrow or regret.
I’ve asked Brady to take my walking stick to Paris just in case I don’t get to live another day. Silly, isn’t it? An old man’s cane traveling the world without him. But that stick has been my companion for 20 years. It has known all my stories, heard all my prayers, felt all my tears. It deserves an adventure.
Be kind to yourselves. Be kinder to each other. And remember, it’s never too late to call someone you love. Until it is.
All my love,
Dad”
Brady was the last to leave the cemetery. He chose to keep Arnold’s letter because he knew there was no use in mailing it to his children. At home, he found Joe — Arnold’s aging tabby — waiting on the porch, as if he knew exactly where he belonged.
