At the nursing home where I worked for years, there was a man everyone simply called Eliot. No last name, no titles — that’s how he wanted it. “Call me mister one more time, and I’ll charge you rent for it,” he’d joke, always quick with a witty remark. We became close — as close as someone like Eliot would allow.
Eliot had no visitors. Ever. But every Saturday at exactly 9 a.m., he performed one ritual: he wrote a letter. Slowly, carefully. Always alone, always silent. He’d seal it, place it on the windowsill, and later insist on mailing it himself.
I asked once if I could help. He refused. “Please, don’t ask again. This is something I must do.”
And so I didn’t. Until curiosity got the better of me. One morning, when he stepped out, I switched his letter with a blank envelope. My hands shook with guilt — but I had to know.
The letter was addressed to E.H. The name sent a strange chill through me — familiar, somehow. The address pointed to a small town not far away.
That weekend, unable to focus on anything else, I drove out there. The house was now owned by strangers, who kindly invited me in when I explained why I’d come. They handed me a box filled with Eliot’s unopened letters — saved out of respect, though they never knew their purpose.
Leaving the house, I felt pulled to a nearby road, where I spotted an old, weathered sign: “Luna Park — Closed.” It sparked a memory. A baby photo. That same sign stood behind me on a carousel horse.
Confused, I rushed to my mother’s house, determined to see those old photo albums she kept hidden. When I showed her the picture, she hesitated — and that’s when the truth began to surface.
Piece by piece, it unraveled: the man I cared for at the nursing home wasn’t just a lonely stranger. He was my father. The letters? His way of reaching out, year after year, to the woman he never stopped loving — my mother.
He thought she had disappeared. She thought he abandoned her. Miscommunication, lost letters, and three decades of heartache kept them apart.
In the end, I brought them back together. And in doing so, I found what I never knew I was missing — a father’s love.