The Cottage at Maple Street

The cottage at the end of Maple Street had seen better days, much like Arnold, its sole occupant. Sitting in his worn armchair, Arnold absentmindedly stroked his tabby cat, Joe. At 92, his hands trembled, but they still found comfort in Joe’s orange fur. Afternoon light streamed through dusty windows, illuminating faded photographs that whispered of happier times.

Remembering Tommy’s Birthday

“Do you know what today is, Joe?” Arnold’s voice quivered as he reached for a dusty photo album. His hands trembled not just from age. “It’s Little Tommy’s birthday. He’d be 42 now.”

Flipping through the pages, Arnold smiled at the image of a gap-toothed boy beaming over a superhero cake. “Mariam made him that cake. He hugged her so tightly he smeared frosting all over her dress. She didn’t mind a bit,” Arnold whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Frozen Smiles on the Mantle

Five photographs stood proudly on the mantle, each a snapshot of his children. Bobby, the adventurer with scraped knees. Jenny, clutching her doll Bella. Michael, grinning with his first trophy. Sarah, glowing in her graduation gown. Tommy, radiant on his wedding day.

“The house remembers them all, Joe,” Arnold said, running his fingers along the wall marked with their childhood heights. “This one’s from Bobby’s indoor baseball practice,” he chuckled, tears brimming. “Mariam couldn’t stay mad when he gave her those puppy eyes.”

Ghosts of Christmas Past

In the kitchen, Mariam’s apron still hung on its hook. Arnold touched it gently. “Remember Christmas mornings, love? Five pairs of feet racing down the stairs. You always pretended not to notice them sneaking peeks at the presents.”

On the porch, Arnold watched the neighborhood children play. Their laughter echoed memories of his own lively yard. His neighbor, Ben, interrupted. “Arnie! Both my kids are coming home for Christmas!”

Arnold forced a smile, though his heart ached. “Mariam always baked for days before Christmas. The house smelled of cinnamon and love.”

Calls That Never Last

That evening, Arnold faced the old rotary phone. Calling his children had become a weekly ritual. Jenny answered, distracted. “Dad, I’m in a meeting. Can we talk later?” The dial tone buzzed before he could finish his story.

Three more calls went to voicemail. Tommy, his youngest, finally picked up. “I miss you, son,” Arnold said, his voice breaking. “Remember how you’d hide under my desk during thunderstorms?”

“That’s great, Dad, but I have to go. Let’s talk later, okay?” The call ended, leaving Arnold staring at his reflection in the window. “When did I become a burden, Joe?”

Letters of Hope

Two weeks before Christmas, Arnold penned heartfelt letters to his children. “Time moves strangely at my age,” he wrote. “This Christmas marks my 93rd birthday. I want nothing more than to see your faces, hear your voices—not through a phone line but across my table. Let me be your daddy again, even if just for one day.”

With trembling hands, he mailed the letters, clinging to a fragile hope.

A Neighborhood’s Kindness

As Christmas approached, neighbors rallied. Ben hung lights, and Mrs. Theo directed from her walker. “Arnie’s grandchildren need to see this house shine!” she declared. Arnold watched, overwhelmed by their kindness. “You should see them, love,” he whispered to Mariam’s photograph.

An Empty Christmas

Christmas morning dawned bright but cold. A strawberry cake sat untouched, its “Happy 93rd Birthday” message mocking the silence. Every car sound made Arnold’s heart leap, but no one came. By evening, the empty chairs around his table mirrored his loneliness.

He pressed his forehead to the window, tears streaming. “I guess that’s it, Mariam,” he whispered into the night.

A Glimmer of Hope

Suddenly, headlights illuminated the driveway. Arnold’s breath caught. The door opened, and his children filled the room, their voices breaking the silence. Jenny hugged him tightly, tears streaming. “We should’ve come sooner, Dad,” she whispered.

Arnold’s trembling hands reached out to them. “You’re here now,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “That’s all that matters.”

That night, the cottage on Maple Street glowed, filled once more with laughter, love, and the warmth of family.