The old man never had any visitors in the nursing home. Only one habit: sending letters in the mail every Saturday. One day I broke the rules and read one of them. It led me to a woman who was not a stranger after all.
I had worked in a nursing home for five years. I loved my job. I really did. There was something special about helping the elderly.
We played chess, sang songs from their youth, and sometimes had little picnics in the garden with old blankets and plastic cups of lemonade.
There was one man among the lodgers who everyone called Eliot. Just Eliot. His middle name was never mentioned. He hated it.
‘You add “mister” one more time and I’ll start charging you rent for every syllable.’
We became friends almost immediately. Eliot was sharp of tongue, always ready with a remark.
“Blue stockings today, Jane? That’s bad luck.”
Anyway, as I walked away, I heard him muttering behind me:
‘If it weren’t for you, this place would be unbearable.’
No one ever visited him. Never. I’d asked him once, maybe twice…okay, maybe a dozen times over the years:
‘Elliot, don’t you have any family at all?’
“No. Never had any. Just me.”
‘What about friends?’
He grinned, that bitter laugh.
“Oh, dear… friends disappear one by one every year. And then, when you become inconvenient, they leave all at once.”
But it was his letters that intrigued me most.
Every Saturday, at nine o’clock sharp, he would sit down at his desk and write slowly, in silence, as if he were praying. Then he would seal it in an envelope, write something on the front and put it on the windowsill.
“Remind me later about the letter-box, Jane. I have to drop it in the box myself. In person.”
‘You know, I can mail it to you.’
“It’s very important. Please don’t ask again.”
So I didn’t ask. But… I’m a woman. Curiosity lives in my bones. His mailbox remained painfully empty week after week. And one morning, I just couldn’t help myself.
When Eliot left the room and the letter lay lonely on the windowsill, I exchanged it for the same envelope. My hands trembled. But I did it.
For the first time in two years, I finally recognised the name and address.
‘E.H. Forever to your friend Eliot.’
E.H.? That name…it stirred something. Familiar.
The address was in a small town about an hour and a half away. I knew I had to go there.
Maybe I could find someone who still remembered him. Someone who would finally write back.
All morning I walked around with that letter in my pocket.
I couldn’t concentrate on anything. So when the weekend came, I slipped the letter into my bag and slipped out of the house like a teenager sneaking out after curfew.
I drove with the windows down, letting the wind ruffle my hair. That address… I must have reread it dozens of times at every traffic light.
‘Why does the name of this street remind me of déjà vu headaches?’
Finally, I drove to the address. My heart was pounding as if I were about to confess to a crime. The door was opened by an elderly man.
‘Can I help you?’
“Hello… I’m sorry to bother you. I… this is a little weird…..”
He raised an eyebrow, then chuckled briefly.
“Weird, huh? Well, you’re in luck. Weirdness is my speciality.”
“Um… I work in a nursing home, and one of our residents sends letters here. Has been for years. I just…”
He frowned, then turned and called out,
“Marlene! You need to hear this.”
A woman appeared behind him with a bowl of biscuit dough. I handed her an envelope. He glanced at it, then stepped aside.
“Come on in. You might want to sit down.”
They explained that the house had belonged to someone else decades ago, a woman who’d sold it to their parents.
“I always thought it was spam or adverts. But we kept the handwritten ones.”
The woman disappeared down the corridor and returned with a shoebox. Inside were dozens of envelopes.
“I couldn’t throw them away. They seemed…important to me.”
I don’t know what I expected, but the sight of all those letters made my throat constrict.
I thanked them and walked back out into the soft afternoon light. Something about the place was pulling me in. Then I drove past an old, rusted sign on the side of the road.
“Luna Park. Closed.”
Suddenly, I froze. It was in one of my childhood photos. I was sure of it.
But how?
I had to see those old photos! The ones my mum kept in the cupboard.
I turned the car around. It was time to find out what else I hadn’t remembered.
I hadn’t been to my mum’s for months. She lived in a cosy bungalow two towns away. I barely had time to turn the key in the door when I heard her voice coming from the kitchen.
“You’re early. You only come to me so soon when you’re heartbroken.”
“No. But you were right. I do need something.”
‘Should I be afraid?’
‘Only if you’re hiding something.’
She looked at me. The classic, sharp, motherly squint. I followed her into the kitchen.
‘Remember those baby albums you keep under lock and key like a national treasure?’
“The ones you always try to hide in your purse when I’m not looking? Yes.”
‘Mum, don’t start.’
‘You can look at them here.’
I raised both hands in a sign of surrender.
“Okay. Just…let me look at them. Please.”
She opened the hall wardrobe and pulled out a dusty box labelled ‘Emily – 1990-1995’. I sat on the floor like a child again and flipped through page after page.
And there it was.
My picture. A chubby one-year-old baby sitting on a carousel horse. And behind me, clear as day… that very same sign: ‘Luna Park.’ My hands shook.
‘Mum… where was this done?’
She looked round, carelessly at first. But then her expression changed.
“О. It must have been before we moved.”
‘Moved from where?’
“From out of town. You were just a little girl. We weren’t there long.”
I looked at the picture again. Then pulled an envelope out of my bag. The one that had been addressed to E.H.
“I found these letters. Dozens of them. In that very house. In the very one you’re looking at right now. In the photograph. Here.” I pointed my finger.
Mum didn’t say anything.
“Mum… initials. E.H. That’s you, isn’t it? Emily H****r. They match.”
“Lots of people have initials like that. Don’t be dramatic.”
‘You knew Eliot, didn’t you?’
‘Enough.’
“Just tell me the truth. Who was he?”
Mum turned to the sink, slamming the spoon down.
‘Leave it out.’
“I can’t. I saw you looking at that picture. You remember everything. And you’re hiding something.”
She gripped the edge of the counter. Her shoulders tensed.
“I was young. Things were complicated. That man…he…”
She turned round, her face flushed.
“He left! Left without saying a word. I waited for months. I was pregnant and alone. What was I supposed to do!”
I looked at my mum. My voice came out in a whisper.
‘Elliot… is he my father?’
Her jaw clenched. For a second, she stopped breathing.
‘You told me he was dead!’
“I lied! What kind of mother would tell her daughter that her father ran away and disappeared!”
‘But mum, I had a right to know…’
“Oh, you had a right? I raised you alone. I worked double shifts, wiped your tears and celebrated every birthday. So yes, I decided what rights you had!”
“He’s old now. He’s lonely. He thinks he has no family…”
‘It’s his fault!’
“But you don’t know why he left! You know, you’re not easy to deal with either.”
“Damn it, Emily. That’s enough! Take the pictures and leave before I say something I’ll regret later.”
“He’s written you dozens of letters! You need to talk to him. You’ve been alone your whole life for a reason, right?”
‘NO!’
‘But Mum…’
“You wanted a father? Well, congratulations. You’ve found him. But don’t you dare drag me into this story.”
‘Come on, Mum…’
But she was already gone. The door to the bedroom slammed shut with such force that picture frames rattled on the walls. I stood there, holding a photograph in my hands. Just the day before, Eliot had been the lonely old man I’d been making tea for.
Now, finally, he was a man who had walked out on a pregnant woman. Whatever happened, I had to know the truth.
But what would I say? Did he even know…that he had a daughter?
The answers were probably in those letters. But they were meant for Mum, not me.
So I just left them on the table.
And I left.
I walked into the nursing home just as I always did: nametag fastened, hair tucked back, trainers squeaking on the tiles. Routine helped make everything easier to bear. Even this.
Elliot sat in his usual chair, munching on a stale biscuit like it was a personal insult.
I knocked lightly on the doorframe and smiled.
‘You have a visitor tonight, Elliot.’
He didn’t even look up.
“A visitor? What, is it my probation officer? Or has someone finally dug up my long-lost fortune?”
“No. The real thing. I’ll go get them.”
‘I hope they brought real biscuits and not this crap.’
In the locker room, I pulled off my clothes and pulled on a soft dress. When I stepped inside again, Elliot didn’t look up.
“Took you a long time to get ready. And what kind of dress is that? Do you think it’s prom night?”
I sat down across from him. His gaze darted upward and finally stopped on me.
‘I’m your guest, Elliot.’
He leaned back slightly with suspicion.
“What is this, some kind of interference? Is this about the chocolate I keep under my bed?”
I almost smiled. “No. It’s about the letters. The ones you write every Saturday. I…I read one.”
‘You what!’
“I know I had no right to. But I found her. The woman you’ve been writing to all this time. E.H.”
“It’s none of your business. You can’t just take things that don’t belong to you! It’s-“
“I know, and I’m sorry. But I thought I could find someone to take care of you.”
“Well, you have found one. My dear Emily. Congratulations. You’ve found her. And now what? Drag me over there to have her personally ignore me?”
“She never got them. The house was sold. The letters came after she left. Some probably didn’t get through at all. That woman… she’s my mother.”
‘And you…’
‘I’m your daughter.’
Elliot leaned forward, hands trembling.
‘You’re my…’
“And she said that YOU left. That you left and never came back.”
“I was drafted into the service. I wrote to her. Every week. When I came home, she was gone. No note, no sign of her. Just…gone.”
‘The letters you sent earlier-they’re not in the box.’
He looked at his hands again, then at me.
‘You look like her.’
And just as I was about to reply, the door creaked open. We both turned round. Standing in the doorway was my mum, her eyes already filled with tears.
“I wasn’t going to come. But then I read your letters.”
Elliot stood up. Slower than usual. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
‘Now I know.’
I didn’t move. I just stared. At Mum and Dad. My voice cracked as I whispered,
‘Can we just… finally hold each other?’
We stood like that for a long time, arms wrapped around each other, heads resting on shaking shoulders. No one spoke. Each of us cried in silence. Thirty years flashed before our eyes.
But finally…we had all the time we needed.
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