The Letter That Never Arrived Grandma sat by the window for a long time, though there was little to see. In the English twilight, the lamp post outside flickered lazily, lighting up the patchy footprints of dogs and people in the thin snow. Somewhere in the distance, a caretaker scraped the path, then all was quiet again. Delicate glasses and an old mobile with a cracked screen rested on the windowsill. The phone would sometimes buzz briefly when pictures or voice notes landed in the family group chat, but tonight it was silent. The flat was quiet; the ticking clock sounded louder than she liked. She got up, went to the kitchen, and switched on the light—dim yellow spilling across the table. There was a bowl of cold dumplings covered by a plate, left in case someone dropped by. No one had. She sat at the table, tried a dumpling, but set it aside—the dough had turned rubbery. Still edible, but joyless. She poured tea from her battered enamel kettle, listening to the water, and, surprising herself, sighed aloud. It was a heavy sigh, as if something was torn out of her chest and settled down on the stool beside her. Why am I complaining? she wondered. Everyone’s alive, thank God. I have a roof over my head. And yet… Fragments of recent conversations floated through her mind. Her daughter’s tense voice—”Mum, I can’t go on like this with him. He’s at it again…”—and her son-in-law’s slightly mocking tones: “She’s complaining to you, yeah? Tell her life isn’t all her way.” Her grandson, Alex, now only responding with a sullen “yeah” when she asked about school. Once, he could talk for hours. He’d grown up, of course. But still. They never really argued in front of her—no slammed doors, no shouted words—a silent wall had grown between them. Small barbs, what wasn’t said, old hurts never admitted. She hovered, drifting between her daughter and son-in-law, always careful not to say the wrong thing. Sometimes it seemed to her it was somehow her fault—she’d not raised them right, given the wrong advice, or stayed silent when she should have spoken up. She sipped her tea, winced—the first sip was too hot—and suddenly remembered a time, years ago, when Alex was little and they’d written a letter to Father Christmas together. He’d scrawled in big, careful letters: “Please bring me a building set, and make Mum and Dad stop arguing.” She had laughed at the time, stroked his hair and said Father Christmas would hear every word. Now she felt a prick of shame for that memory, as if she’d lied to the child back then. His parents had never really stopped; they’d just grown better at arguing quietly. She pushed the glass aside, wiped the table, although it was spotless, then wandered to her desk and switched on the lamp. Pen and notebook—untouched for ages, since everything happened on her phone these days—sat ready. She stared at them, then, absurdly, felt a small glow at the idea: writing a letter. A real one, on paper. Not for a present, but just to ask. Not family, who each carried their own baggage, but someone—anyone—outside of it all. She smiled ruefully. An old lady, off her rocker, writing to a fairy-tale granddad. But her hand already reached for the notebook. She sat, adjusted her glasses, found a clean page. She paused, then wrote: “Dear Father Christmas…” Her hand shook. She felt oddly exposed, as if someone peered over her shoulder. But the room was empty. “Well, never mind,” she muttered, and wrote on: “I know you’re for children, and I’m old now. I won’t ask you for a coat or a TV. I have what I need. There’s just one thing: please, could you bring peace to our family? So my daughter and her husband don’t quarrel, so my grandson isn’t silent, like a stranger. So we could all sit around one table and not fear who’ll say the wrong thing. I realise people are to blame. You don’t owe us anything. But if you could help, even just a little, I would be grateful. Maybe I have no right to ask, but I’ll ask anyway. If you can, let us hear each other. With respect, Grandma Nina.” She read it through. The words seemed naive, crooked like children’s drawings. But she didn’t cross them out. She felt lighter, as though she’d shared her worry with someone who might actually listen. She folded the letter, then again, and sat with it in her hands, unsure. Where to put it? Out the window? The bin? Ridiculous. She remembered she’d planned to go to the shop and the post office the next day, to pay the bills. Fine, she thought—she’d drop it in the children’s postbox to Father Christmas, which seem to be everywhere now. Somehow, that made her feel less foolish; she‘d be one among many, not alone. She slipped the letter into her handbag, next to her passport and bills, and turned off the lights. The clock ticked in the stillness as she lay in bed, listening to the hush until sleep came. … The rest of the story weaves together subtle English details—the post office, the street swept by a caretaker, a knock at the door, the quiet visiting family—all circling around that letter. It is found, lost, found again; it floats between hands and hearts, never quite posted, never quite said, but always shaping the quiet, careful peace that settles, finally, around their table. And so, the story ends, not with miracles, but with small, brave steps: a boy’s awkward invitation, a daughter’s honest word, a family’s quiet meal. The letter never arrives, but its wish comes true in simplest, human ways. The Letter That Never Arrived

The Letter That Never Arrived

Grandma Nora sat by the window for ages, though there wasnt much to see. In the courtyard below, dusk fell early, and the streetlamp out front flickered lazily on and off, as though it couldnt make up its mind. Lines in the snow marked where the neighbours dog and the odd passerby had trudged. Far off, someone scraped their drive with a shovel, and then silence fell again.

On the windowsill sat her slim-framed glasses and an old mobile with a cracked screen protector. The phone gave the occasional buzz when photos or voice messages dropped in the family group chat, but tonight it was silent. The flat was quiet, the clock on the wall ticking off the seconds far too loudly.

Nora got up, wandered to the kitchen, and flicked on the light. The pendant lamp spread a faint yellowish glow about the table, where a bowl of cold dumplings, covered with a plate, waited. Shed boiled them at lunch, just in case someone called in. No one had.

She sat, took a dumpling, bit it, but straightaway put it back down. The pastry had gone rubbery with the hours. Edible, but void of joy. She poured herself a mug of tea from her battered old kettle, listening to the hot water as it splashed, and quite unexpectedly sighed aloud.

The sigh felt weighted, as if something inside broke loose and sat beside her on the stool.

What am I grumbling for? she told herself. Everyones alive, thank goodness. Ive a roof over my head. And yet

Yet snippets of recent conversations surfaced. Her daughter Emmas voice, taut as a bowstring:
Mum, I cant put up with him anymore. Hes done it again

And then her son-in-law Mark, always with a mocking tilt to his tone:
Shes complaining again, is she? You tell her, life isnt all about getting her own way.

And then her grandson, Charlie, offering only a muted Yeah whenever Nora rang and asked about his day. Those yeahs hurt more than anything. He used to chatter about school, his mates. Now, of course, hed grown up. Still.

No one argued in front of her anymore, no door-slamming rows, but there was a wall now in every silence, sharp with unsaid things and bruised feelings that no one would name. She drifted between Emma and Mark, wary never to speak out of turn. Often she felt to blame, somehowhad she raised Emma wrong, given poor advice, said too much, or too little?

She sipped her tea, winced at the heat, and remembered, years ago, when Charlie was little and they wrote a letter to Father Christmas together. Hed scrawled, crookedly, Please bring me a Lego set and for Mum and Dad to stop arguing. Shed laughed at the time, smoothing his hair. Of course, Father Christmas will make it happen.

Now a blush of shame warmed her cheeks, as if shed lied to the boy. Mum and Dad had never stopped, just learned to do it quietly, away from listening ears.

Nora pushed aside her mug, wiped the table with a napkin though it was clean enough. She wandered back to the front room and switched on her desk lamp. The beam fell across her battered old writing desk. She hardly wrote by hand nowadays, more accustomed to text messages, emojis, and voice notes. Still, a pen sat in a chipped mug on the table next to a notebook, its cover a faded tartan.

She stood there a moment, eyeing the pen, and, half-amused, half-hopeful, wondered: What if

The thought was absurd, almost childishbut it brought a flicker of warmth. Write a letter. A real one, on paper. Not asking for a present. Just to ask. Not from those knotted up in their own troubles, but from someone meant to be impartial, above it all.

She grinned ruefully. A daft old lady, writing to Father Christmas at her age. Still, she found herself reaching for the notebook.

She sat, placed her glasses on her nose, and took up the pen. A few old shopping lists covered the first page. She turned past them to a blank one, paused, and then wrote, Dear Father Christmas.

Her hand shook. She felt foolish, as though someone were peering over her shoulder. She glanced around her empty lounge, neat bed, wardrobes with polished handles. Nobody here.

‘Oh well,’ she said softly, and continued:

I know youre meant for children and Im far too old now. But Im not asking for a coat or a television or anything like that. Ive all I need. Theres just one thing I want: bring a little peace to our family, please.

Let Emma and Mark stop quarrelling; let Charlie chat, not shut himself away. Let us sit together around one table, not fearing to say the wrong thing. I know people bring their own troubles, and its not really your concern. Still, perhaps you could help, even a little. Maybe Ive no right to ask, but I will anyway. Please help us hear each other.

Sincerely, Grandma Nora.

She read her words over. They seemed childlike, clumsy, like kids paintings. But she didnt scratch them out. Strangely, she felt lighter, as if shed finally said something out loud.

She carefully folded the paper once, twice, and sat holding it in her hands, not knowing what came next. Throw it out the window? Pop it in a post-box? Ridiculous.

She stood and fetched her handbag from the hallway. She remembered she had errands at the Post Office tomorrowpaying the council tax and picking up a few things. Ill post it in one of those Father Christmas letter boxes, she decided. Theres always one about this time of year. That thought made her feel less silly. She wouldnt be the only one.

She slipped the letter in the pocket of her bag, next to her passport and her utility bills, and switched out the lights. The flat felt hushed. She curled up in bed, listened for a while to the quiet, and finally drifted off.

Next morning, determined to beat the midday rush, she bundled out early. Icy pavements crackled underfoot. Her neighbour Mrs James was out with her Jack Russell.

‘Morning, Nora, you well?’ Mrs James called, nodding.

They exchanged a few words, and Nora carried on, gripping her handbag strap tight.

The Post Office was packed, a snaking queue leading to the cashier. Nora took her place, sorted her bills, and pulled out the folded letter. But there was no Father Christmas boxjust the usual metal post-boxes and a rack of Christmas stamps and cards.

She hesitated. Well, youd set yourself up for this, she thought, a tad embarrassed. She couldnt simply bin the letter, though, and tucked it back in her pocket, paid her bills, and stepped outside.

Next door, a little pop-up stall was selling tinsel and plush toys. A cardboard box with a sticker reading LETTERS TO FATHER CHRISTMAS sat atop a crate. But the box was empty, and the shopkeeper was peeling off the tape.

All done for the year, love, she said, catching Noras glance. Last collection was yesterday. Bit late now; they wont get there in time.

Nora nodded, though she wasnt in any hurry, thanked herthough for what, she wasn’t sureand walked home. The letter sat in her bag, a warm secret tucked away, impossible to forget, difficult to discard.

At home, she slipped off her boots in the hall, hung her coat, and propped her bag on the stool, ready to unpack later. Her phone vibrated. She pulled it out, saw Emmas name:

Mum, hi. Well pop round at the weekend if thats okay? Charlies asking about some old books for school.

Her chest clenched with something sharp and then eased. Theyd come! Things werent all lost. She typed: Of course, love, Ill look forward to it.

She unpacked her shopping, set stock on for soup. The letter remained in her bag on the stool, all but forgotten.

Saturday evening brought the now-familiar commotion on the stairs, a door slamming, voices echoing in the hall.

Emma, arms full of carrier bags; Mark with a box; Charlie, taller than the doorframe, skinnier now, hair sticking out from under his beanie.

Hi Gran, Charlie said first, ducking into the flat and kissing her on the cheek.

Come in, come on, shoes offIve set out slippers for you, Nora said, bustling them inside.

The hallway became a tangle of boots, coats, sweet smells from Emmas bag, Mark grumbling over the stairwell not being cleaned, Charlie awkwardly shoving off his trainers.

Mum, we cant stay too long, Emma said, hoisting bags to the floor. Were with Marks parents tomorrow, you remember?

I do, I do. Come, lets have some soup.

In the kitchen, they sat in a loose kind of huddleMark nearest the window, Emma beside him, Charlie opposite Nora. They ate in silence, spooning soup, only the clink of cutlery breaking the hush. Gradually, conversation took a turnwork, traffic, rising prices. The words flowed, but a current pulsed under the surface, unspoken and taut.

Charlie, what was it you needed for school? Emma prompted as the bowls emptied.

Oh, yeah, said Charlie, roused. Gran, any books on the war? Mr Hargreaves says we can use more sources if we want.

Ive a shelf fullcome on, Ill show you.

They headed into the living room. Nora switched on her desk lamp, reaching up for the battered volumes.

There, have a lookthis ones about the Blitz; this is memoir; this, resistance work Any in particular?

I dunno, something not too dull, I spose.

She caught, for a moment, a glimmer of the curious boy who used to pepper her with questions. Now he was quiet, but his eyes brightened.

Try this, she suggested, handing over a soft-spined book. Its livelykept me up when I was younger.

He glanced over the pages. Ta, Gran.

They talked a bitabout Mr Hargreaves (who, according to Charlie, was all right, just a bit much sometimes), about school, about nothingand it was enough for Nora, just listening to him again.

Then Emma poked her head in.

Well head in about half an hour, Charlie. Start packing up.

Righto, he replied, tucking the book into his rucksack.

In the hall, the commotion started up again: bags, scarves, remindersText me when youre home! Dont forget your book! Ill email you later. Nora saw them out, waited until the lift doors closed, then returned to her flat.

The quiet landed instantly. She cleared away in the kitchen. Her bag sat on the stool. She reached instinctively into the side pocket, felt for the folded letter. For a heartbeat she was tempted to tear it to piecesthen pressed it further down and zipped it away.

She never knew that, while shed been fetching books, Charlie had knocked her bag, jostling the pocket so a corner of the paper peeked through. Hed tucked it back in, but caught sight of the words: Dear Father Christmas, and froze.

He hadnt taken the letter then. Too many adults about, too much bustling. Still, that heading lodged itself in his mind.

That evening, back home, it returned as he unpacked his rucksack and found Nanas book. The idea of Grandmaa proper grown-upwriting to Father Christmas had struck him first as funny, then peculiar, finally somewhat sad.

The next day, after yet more family visits and Sunday dinners, the memory lingered at the edges of his mind.

Back at school, he messaged: Gran, is it all right if I stop by? Need to ask you more about history. She replied almost instantly: Of course, my love.

He turned up after school, headphones still round his neck, rucksack heavy. In the hallway, the familiar smell of cabbage and floor polish met him. Nora answered the door as if shed been waiting just beyond the latch.

Come in, Charlie, take your coat off. Ive made pancakes.

He shrugged out of his jacket, set his bag beside hers on the same stool. The side pocket was open again, a slip of paper poking out. Something twisted inside him.

While Nora busied herself plating up pancakes, Charlie crouched (as though to fix his shoelace), and slid out the paper. His heart hammeredhe knew this wasnt quite honest, but couldnt stop himself.

He tucked the letter into the pocket of his hoodie, stood, and wandered into the kitchen.

Ooh, pancakes! he grinned, trying to sound casual. Brilliant.

They chatted over food about school, weather, the coming holidays. Nora fussed, checking if his boots leaked or if he was warm enough. He brushed her off, half-joking.

Afterwards, he pretended to look through the book again before heading home as usual.

That night, door closed, he sat on the bed, the letter in his lap. The paper was creased, corners a bit bentthe handwriting neat, curls and loops clear.

He read it, at first sheepish, as though overhearing something private. Then, when he came to the line about let my grandson not be silent like a stranger, he stopped and read again.
A lump formed in his throat. He remembered his monosyllabic phone replies, his impatience on the odd time shed called. Not from a lack of lovemore just tiredness, or being distracted. Shed felt it as distance.

He finished reading. The bit about peace, about one table, about hearing each other, hit him deep. The letter wasnt a wish for some fairy-tale magic, but a wish from herto him.

Over dinner, he tried more than once to bring up Gran, but each time his father asked about school, or his mum launched into a story about work, and the moment passed. He ate in silence.

That night, with the letter tucked away in his desk, he lay awake. It seemed to call to him.

The next day, he told his best friend at breaktime that hed found a letter from his gran to Father Christmas. The mate laughedMy grandad only writes to the Government about his pension!but Charlie frowned. Its not funny, he said, his own sharpness surprising him.

His friend shrugged, moving on, but Charlie held on to his sense of responsibility, alone with it.

That evening, he started to ring Gran, stopped before the line connected. Scrolling through the family WhatsApp, he saw the threads: a recipe, a meme about traffic, an office party invite. All surface chatter.

He typed: Mum, why dont we spend New Year at Grans? then deleted it. He pictured her replyWeve plans with Dads folks; too complicated; too much hassle. More bickering.

He sat at his desk, took out the letter, reread it. Around one table. An idea fizzed in his headnot New Year, just any day.

He went to the living room where his mum was typing on her laptop.

Mum, he began, uncertain, what if we had dinner together at Grans, all of us? Not just a quick visitbut really together. I can help cook.

She eyed him. You? Cook? Thats new.

I could. Chips, salad. Anything. Doesnt matter.

She sighed. Your dadll grumble. I have deadlines.

Could be Saturday. Instead of doing nothing at home.

She leaned back, studying him. Ill talk to your dad. But I cant promise, Charlie.

He nodded, his ears burning. It was his first, awkward step. Not heroic, but meaningful.

Later, listening from his room, he caught slivers of their conversation.

He asked to visit, Mum said, bemused. Didnt even have to beg.

Dad answered, low. What for? Shell only talk about her knees and the cost of heating.

Shes on her own, Mum replied. And it seems Charlie minds.

Silence, then a sigh. Fine. Saturday, then.

Charlie returned to his room with a grina small victory, but important. Now his task was to face Gran.

Next day he phoned her.

Gran its me. Were all coming round Saturday, is that okay? I can come earlier and help with dinner.

She paused. Course, Charlie. What are we cooking?

I can chop salad, or do potatoes, he offered.

You never chopped salad before, she teased. I’ll show you.

Saturday came. Charlie arrived early, lugging bags of groceries Mum had insisted on.

Goodness, who are we feedinghalf the street? Nora laughed when she saw the bags.

Its fineleftovers are better than not enough.

They peeled spuds, chopped veg, Nora guiding him when his knife skills wobbled.

Not like thatmind your fingers, she scolded, but with affection.

The kitchen soon filled with the scent of onions and roasting meat. A radio played quietly. Outside, the world was turning grey; people hurried past, collars up.

Gran, Charlie asked suddenly, still on the cucumber, did you everwell, believe in Father Christmas?

She started, her ladle clattering.

Whered that come from? she asked, not looking round.

He shrugged. Just something from school.

She stirred the pan, then switched off the hob and faced him. Her eyes were careful.

When I was little, yes. Not so much later. They say if he exists, maybe hes different than in the adverts. Why?

He shrugged. Be fun if he did, I reckon.

She returned to her cooking, he went back to his. Inside, his hands trembled. He hadnt told her about the letter. But something had shifted.

That evening, Emma and Mark arrived. Mark was weary but not sour; Emma carried a homemade apple pie.

Flipping heck, Mark said, surveying the spread, whos on the guest list, the Army?

Your son helped, Nora said with a smile.

Thatll be worth a photo, Mark chuckled.

They all sat. At first, the atmosphere was stiff, words chosen too carefully. But, as with all good meals, the food eased tensions, and stories bubbled upchildhood mishaps, workday tales, the time Emma got lost in John Lewis. Laughter came, shy at first, then warmer.

Pouring tea, Emma murmured, Sorry, Mum, we dont get over enough. Were always so busy.

She wasnt excusing herselfjust acknowledging. Nora dropped her gaze, tracing circles on her saucer.

I know. Youve your own lives. I get it.

Charlie felt a panghe knew she did mind, even if she denied it. But she was gentle about it, refusing to guilt-trip.

Still, he interrupted, surprising himself: Doesnt have to be just for birthdays or Christmas. We could, you know, do this sometimes. Just like tonight.

Both adults looked at him. He flushed, but pressed on. It worked, didnt it?

Mark grinned, softer than usual. It did, mate.

Emma nodded. Well try.

They talked of university courses, tutors, memories of daft school shows. Nora listened, offered her two pence, sometimes lost in the modern terms, but keen not to fall behind.

As they pulled on coats, crowded in the hall, Emma asked: Mum, maybe we can do this properly next timejust say when.

Id love that, Nora replied.

Charlie lingered by her writing desk. The letter wasnt thereit was in the pocket of his coat, folded carefully, not to return. Hed decided to keep ita reminder more powerful than any gift.

He said quietly, Gran, if you ever need us to do somethingjust ask, all right? No need for letters to the North Pole. Were right here.

She looked at him, surprised, then soft. All right, love. I promise.

He nodded, slipped into the passage. The door shut, the lift took them away.

Nora was alone again. She sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by the warmth and scent of roast and tea. Her hand moved over the tablecloth, gathering stray crumbs.

She felt a quiet contentmentnot delight, not burst of joy, but something gentle, as if a window had been cracked open and a breeze had swept in. The old tensions werent gone. Mark and Emma would still squabble. Charlie had his secrets. But this evening, at her table, they had drawn nearer.

She thought of her letter, not sure exactly where it was. Maybe still in her bag. Maybe lost. Maybe found by someone. It hardly mattered now.

She moved to the window. Outside, under the streetlamp, children fashioned lumpy snowmen, a boy in a red bobble hat laughing so loudly his voice floated right up to her.

Nora let her forehead rest against the cold pane, a smile twitching on her lips, answering some quiet signal in the world.

In the pocket of Charlies coat, back in their hallway, the folded letter waited. Sometimes hed take it out, read a few lines, and tuck it away againnot as a wish to Father Christmas, but as a nudge to himself about what mattered to someone who made him soup and waited for his call.

He never told his family about the letter. But next time Emma said she was too tired to visit Gran, he simply answered, Ill go see her, then.

And he did. Not for a holiday, or a reason. Just because. It wasnt a miraclejust another small step in the direction of peace, the kind that someone, somewhere, once wrote up in a letter on chequered paper.

When Nora opened the door to him, she was surprised, but didnt ask questions. She only said:

Come in, Charlie. Ive just put the kettle on.

And that was enough, for the flat to feel that bit warmer again.

Because sometimes, the answer to a wish isnt magic or miraclesits the courage to ask, and the kindness of being heard.