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The Story:
Every Saturday morning for 40 years, he had walked to the town square and dropped a letter into the mailbox. Then, he would go home and sit in silence, dreaming of what it would be like to receive a response.
He hadn’t always written them, though. His wife penned every heartfelt apology on his behalf until three years ago. Before the cancer took her, she made him promise that he would try.
The letter was always the same. Same words. Same address. And always handwritten. He reviewed the contents before sealing the envelope.
“Isaac, my dear son, I miss you. My heart grieves the loss of these many years that we could have had together.
Not a day goes by that I don’t regret the words we last spoke to each other. If you would just give me a chance, I am confident we could mend these broken years.
Please, my son. Please, come back to me. You’re all that I have.”
He sealed the envelope and entrusted his hope to the mail service. Shuffling back toward his home, a woman greeted him.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you Richard Isaac Porter?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“A man at the corner diner told me I might find you up here right now.”
She looked him over for several seconds before her smile began to fade.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your son, Isaac Porter… Well, he’s dead,” she said with glistening eyes.
He felt the weight of 40 years of unrest crash into his heart. He stumbled over, using a brick wall to remain upright. She rushed to his side to steady him.
“How… How did it happen?”
“He was in a car accident several weeks ago. We would have brought you to the funeral, but we didn’t know about you until we started getting the letters.”
“We?”
“Your grandchildren.”
He looked into her eyes and realized he was looking into eyes just like his own.
“I’m your granddaughter, Amelia Porter. I’m here to bring you home with me.”
He reached out and lightly held her cheek in one hand, tears streaming down his face. Through the pain he mustered a smile.