Arnold sat alone in his worn armchair, his tabby cat, Joe, curled in his lap. The air in the little cottage on Maple Street was heavy with silence, save for the rhythmic creaking of the rocking chair. At 93, Arnold’s hands trembled as he stroked Joe’s orange fur. The light filtering through the dusty windows fell on a photo album perched on the table—its pages filled with memories frozen in time.
“You know what today is, Joe?” Arnold whispered, his voice barely louder than the ticking clock on the wall. “Tommy’s birthday. He’d be 42 now.” He opened the album, his eyes lingering on a picture of a gap-toothed boy grinning ear to ear, frosting smeared across his cheeks.
“Mariam made him that superhero cake he begged for. He hugged her so tight he got frosting all over her dress,” Arnold chuckled softly, though tears welled in his eyes. “She didn’t mind. She never minded anything that made them happy.”
The mantle above the fireplace displayed five framed photos: Bobby, Jenny, Michael, Sarah, and Tommy. Each picture captured a moment from their childhood—scraped knees, proud trophies, graduation caps, and wedding veils. Arnold’s gaze lingered on the wall beside the photos, where pencil marks etched the heights of his children over the years. His fingers brushed the faded lines.
“Bobby broke that vase trying to play baseball indoors,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. “He said, ‘I was practicing to be like you, Dad.’ Mariam couldn’t stay mad after that.”
Arnold shuffled into the kitchen, where Mariam’s apron still hung on its hook. The once-lively home now echoed with memories that felt more like ghosts. “Do you remember, love? Christmas mornings with five little feet thundering down the stairs. You always pretended not to hear them sneaking peeks at their presents.”
The stillness was broken only by the sound of neighborhood children playing outside. Their laughter carried through the open window, reminding Arnold of when his yard was full of life. As he sat on the porch, his neighbor Ben approached, beaming.
“Arnie! You’ll never guess—both my kids are coming home for Christmas!” Ben said, practically skipping with excitement. “Nancy’s bringing the twins, and Simon’s flying in from Seattle. Martha’s already planning the menu.”
Arnold forced a smile. “That’s wonderful, Ben. Just like Mariam used to do—turkey, ham, her apple pie. The house smelled like love.”
That evening, Arnold sat at his kitchen table, staring at the old rotary phone. His weekly calls to his children felt heavier with each passing Tuesday. Jenny picked up first.
“Hi, Dad. What is it?” Her voice was hurried.
“Jenny, remember when you dressed as a princess for Halloween? You made me be the dragon to save your kingdom. You said you didn’t need a prince if you had your daddy.”
“Dad, I’m in a meeting. Can we talk later?” Jenny hung up before he could reply.
Three more calls went unanswered. Tommy finally picked up. “Dad, it’s crazy here. The kids are wild, and Lisa’s swamped with work.”
“I miss you, son,” Arnold said softly. “I miss hearing your laughter in this house.”
“Yeah, Dad. Let’s talk later, okay?” Tommy ended the call, leaving Arnold staring at the silent receiver.
“They used to fight over who got to talk to me first,” Arnold said to Joe. “Now they fight over who has to.” His heart ached as he thought of the five empty chairs at his dining table.
Desperate for one last chance, Arnold sat at his desk, writing letters to each of his children. His hand trembled as he poured his heart onto the paper, asking them to come home for Christmas. “I’m not getting any younger,” he wrote. “Let me hold you close, just one more time.”
He sealed the letters and walked to the post office. “Letters to my kids,” he told Paula, the clerk, his voice filled with fragile hope.
Christmas morning came, and the house was ready. The table was set, the turkey roasted, candles lit. But as the hours passed, the only visitors were departing neighbors, offering pity instead of joy. The house grew darker, quieter, until Arnold sat alone by the window, watching the last of the holiday lights flicker out.
“I guess that’s it, Mariam,” he whispered. “They’re not coming.”
A sudden knock at the door startled him. Through the frosted glass, Arnold saw a figure—not one of his children, but a young man with a camera. Arnold opened the door reluctantly.
“Hi, I’m Brady,” the stranger said with a warm smile. “I’m new here, making a documentary about Christmas. Mind if I—”
“There’s nothing to film here,” Arnold snapped. “Just an old man waiting for ghosts.”
Brady hesitated. “I lost my parents two years ago. I know what it’s like—setting a table for people who won’t come. Would you mind if we celebrated together? Nobody should be alone on Christmas.”
Arnold’s defenses crumbled under Brady’s kind words. “I have cake,” Arnold said after a long pause. “It’s my birthday too.”
Brady returned with half the neighborhood. Laughter and warmth filled the house as Arnold blew out his candles surrounded by strangers who had become family. For the first time in years, Arnold didn’t wish for his children to come home. Instead, he wished for the strength to let go.
Months later, Brady found Arnold peacefully passed in his chair, Joe beside him. At the funeral, Arnold’s children arrived too late, their tears unable to mend years of absence. Brady tucked a plane ticket to Paris into Arnold’s coffin—a promise unfulfilled, but a dream carried forward.
Later, with Joe by his side, Brady boarded that plane to Paris, Arnold’s walking stick in hand. As the sun rose, Brady whispered, “Some dreams just need different legs to carry them.”
Back on Maple Street, the little cottage stood quietly, filled with the echoes of love, hope, and the memories of a man who never stopped believing.
