Arnold found himself seated in his well-worn armchair, with his tabby cat, Joe, nestled comfortably in his lap. The atmosphere within the quaint cottage on Maple Street was thick with silence, interrupted only by the gentle creaking of the rocking chair. At the age of 93, Arnold’s hands shook slightly as he caressed Joe’s orange fur. Sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, illuminating a photo album resting on the table—its pages a testament to memories captured in time.
“Do you recall what day it is, Joe?” Arnold murmured, his voice scarcely rising above the ticking clock on the wall. “It’s Tommy’s birthday. He would have turned 42 today.” He opened the album, his gaze lingering on a photograph of a gap-toothed boy beaming with joy, frosting smeared across his cheeks.
“Mariam baked him that superhero cake he had been longing for. He embraced her so tightly that he got frosting all over her dress,” Arnold chuckled softly, though tears threatened to spill from his eyes. “She never minded. She always cherished anything that brought them joy.”
Above the fireplace, five framed photographs adorned the mantle: Bobby, Jenny, Michael, Sarah, and Tommy. Each image encapsulated a moment from their childhood—scraped knees, proud trophies, graduation caps, and wedding veils. Arnold’s eyes drifted to the wall beside the photos, where pencil marks recorded the heights of his children over the years. His fingers traced the faded lines.
“Bobby shattered that vase while attempting to play baseball indoors,” he reminisced, a smile forming on his lips. “He claimed, ‘I was just practicing to be like you, Dad.’ Mariam could never stay angry after that.”
Arnold made his way to the kitchen, where Mariam’s apron still hung on its hook. The once-vibrant home now resonated with memories that felt more like echoes of the past. “Do you remember, my love? Christmas mornings filled with the sound of five little feet racing down the stairs. You always pretended not to notice them sneaking glances at their gifts.”
The tranquility was only interrupted by the sounds of children playing outside, their laughter drifting through the open window, reminding Arnold of the days when his yard was alive with activity. As he sat there, he felt the weight of nostalgia enveloping him.
Ben exclaimed with palpable excitement, “Arnie! You won’t believe it—both my children are returning home for Christmas!” He was nearly bouncing with joy. “Nancy is bringing the twins, and Simon is flying in from Seattle. Martha is already busy planning the menu.”
Arnold managed a smile. “That’s delightful, Ben. Just like Mariam used to do—turkey, ham, and her famous apple pie. The aroma filled the house with warmth.”
Later that evening, Arnold found himself at the kitchen table, gazing at the old rotary phone. Each Tuesday, his weekly calls to his children felt increasingly burdensome. Jenny was the first to answer.
“Hi, Dad. What’s up?” Her tone was rushed.
“Jenny, do you recall when you dressed as a princess for Halloween? You insisted I be the dragon to rescue your kingdom. You said you didn’t need a prince as long as you had your daddy.”
“Dad, I’m in a meeting. Can we talk later?” Jenny hung up before he could respond.
Three more calls went unanswered until Tommy finally picked up. “Dad, it’s chaotic here. The kids are out of control, and Lisa is overwhelmed with work.”
“I miss you, son,” Arnold said gently. “I miss the sound of your laughter in this house.”
“Yeah, Dad. Let’s catch up later, okay?” Tommy concluded the call, leaving Arnold staring at the quiet receiver.
“They used to argue over who would speak to me first,” Arnold remarked to Joe. “Now they argue over who has to.” His heart ached at the thought of the five empty chairs around his dining table.
In a bid for one last opportunity, Arnold sat at his desk, composing letters to each of his children. His hand shook as he expressed his feelings on the page, pleading for them to return home for Christmas. “I’m not getting any younger,” he wrote. “Let me hold you close, just one more time.”
After sealing the letters, he made his way to the post office. “These are letters to my children,” he informed Paula, the clerk, his voice tinged with fragile hope.
Christmas morning arrived, and the house was prepared. The table was elegantly set, the turkey was perfectly roasted, and the candles flickered softly. However, as the hours went by, the only visitors were departing neighbors, offering sympathy rather than joy. The atmosphere grew dimmer and quieter until Arnold found himself alone by the window, observing the last of the holiday lights fade away.
“I suppose that’s it, Mariam,” he murmured. “They’re not coming.”
A sudden knock at the door startled him. Through the frosted glass, Arnold discerned a figure—not one of his children, but a young man holding a camera. Reluctantly, Arnold opened the door.
“Hello, I’m Brady,” the stranger greeted him with a friendly smile. “I’m new in the area and making a documentary about Christmas. Would you mind if I—”
“There’s nothing worth filming here,” Arnold retorted. “Just an old man waiting for ghosts.”
Brady paused for a moment. “I lost my parents two years ago. I understand what it feels like to set a table for those who won’t arrive. Would you consider celebrating together? No one should be alone on Christmas.”
Arnold’s defenses began to weaken in response to Brady’s compassionate words. “I have cake,” Arnold finally replied after a lengthy silence. “It’s my birthday as well.”
Brady returned with half the neighborhood in tow. Laughter and warmth enveloped the house as Arnold blew out his candles, surrounded by strangers who had transformed into family. For the first time in years, Arnold did not yearn for his children to return home; instead, he wished for the strength to let go.
Months later, Brady discovered Arnold peacefully passed away in his chair, with Joe by his side. At the funeral, Arnold’s children arrived too late, their tears unable to heal the wounds of years spent apart. Brady placed a plane ticket to Paris in Arnold’s coffin—a promise unfulfilled, yet a dream carried forward.
Brady, accompanied by Joe, later embarked on the flight to Paris, holding Arnold’s walking stick. As dawn broke, Brady softly remarked, “Some dreams simply require different means to be realized.”
Meanwhile, on Maple Street, the quaint cottage remained still, resonating with the remnants of love, hope, and the recollections of a man who perpetually held onto his beliefs.
