The Lost Letter: A Snowy Evening, a Crying Boy, and the Christmas Wish That Changed Everything

Author Walton MerrittReading 10 minViews 3

The Letter

David was walking home from work, the snow underfoot crunching just right, making him oddly nostalgic for his childhood. Sledging down the hill on a battered satchel, pelting friends with snowballs, sneaking mouthfuls of iciclesthose were golden days.

Suddenly, he heard the unmistakable sound of a child crying. He glanced about and spotted a boy in a chestnut overcoat and a grey woolly hat, perched on a bench, bawling his eyes out and smearing tears across his face.

David approached him.
Hey there, are you lost? Whats happened?

Ive lost a letter… It was in my pocket, and then, poof, just gone! And the boy dissolved into a fresh bout of sobbing.

Hey now, chin up! Lets look for it together. What was the letter about? Was it for your mum to post?

I wrote it… to Father Christmas. Mum doesnt even know…

Oh dear, thats rotten luck… But dont worry, you can write it again…

But it wont get there in time…

Tell you what, youd best head home, its getting dark. Ill have a look for your letter. Deal?

Promise? Will you really post it if you find it?

Promise, cross my heart! I know for a fact Father Christmas knows everything children tell him. Even if I dont find it, hell bring you something all the same!

The boy wiped his face with his sleeve and scampered off.

Poor little chap. Wrote that letter with such care, and now this… David couldnt help but smile, recalling the thrill of finding presents under the tree, utterly convinced Father Christmas had read his letter. That was ages ago.

Soon, his own lad would be penning letters to Father Christmasthough now, at just four, he hadnt cracked it yet.

David kept walking, eyes peeled for any sign of the lost letter. Couldnt help but feel sorry for the boyhe must have wished for something special.

Then, there it was: the corner of an envelope poking out of the snowdrift. David carefully plucked it freethe paper was damp, but it was surely the right one. He tucked it in his bag, lest it tear.

At home, his wife, Emily, was rustling up dinner, and his son, Charlie, was playing with his toy fire engines. David adored his little family and always looked forward to coming back to their cosy flat.

Em, you wouldnt believe it. Walking home, saw this boy, about eight, sobbing on a benchlost his letter to Father Christmas. And you wont believe thisI just found it! Want to see what he wrote?

He pulled the envelope out. The address was scrawled in a rather wobbly hand: “To Father Christmas, from Oliver Watson.”

Shall we have a look? See what he wished for?

Go on! It would only have ended up gathering dust at the post office anyway…

David carefully opened the envelope and unfolded a sheet of squared notebook paper. He began to read aloud:

Dear Father Christmas,

My name is Oliver Watson, I live at 12 Rose Lane. Im nine years old and in Year 4. I like playing football and running about with my mates.

I live with Mum, Sarah, and Gran, Dorothy. Weve just moved into this old cottage that some kind people let us stay in.

We used to live in another town with Dad, but Dad drank a lot and used to hit Mum. Sometimes me too. Mum and GranGran is Dads mumwould cry, and I would cry with them. It was horrible living with Dad so we ran away and took Gran with us.

Father Christmas, can you help Mum find a new job? She cleans floors but isnt supposed to bend down; her back’s bad. And please, can you bring Mum a new dress, hers is all ripped now. Shes tall and slimand really pretty!

Could you bring Gran some pills for her knees? She finds walking hard, though shes not that old. And she dreams of a warm fluffy dressing gown because shes always chilly. Grans small and thin.

Id love a beautiful Christmas tree with lights and colourful baubles. We used to have one before Dad got drunk and knocked it over…

Im really hoping youll come, Father Christmas.

Oliver Watson.

David finished reading and looked over at Emily, who was sniffling quietly.

Oh, thats heartbreakingly sweet… Poor lad! Ran away from a drunk, and now cant afford much… And its so rare for kids to wish for things for their mum and granhe only asked for a tree for himself.

They must’ve had a rough time… And, look, the mum brought her mother-in-law with her, didnt leave her behind. They seem like good people. What if we made Olivers wish come true, eh, Em? What do you think?

It would be wonderful, David. You know I grew up in a family like that, my dad was just as bad… Mum never left him, not until he was gone. No peace until then…

Weve got an admin job going at workno floor-mopping required, and the pays decentperfect for this Sarah, Id say.

Lets see if the Martins will lend us their Father Christmas and Snow Maiden costumes. We could turn up at Olivers with some gifts! Give him a bit of magic!

Ill pop to Boots for Grans knee tabletsthe ones Mum used to get; theyre all much the same. And Ill buy a nice dressing gown for Gran and a dress for MumIm about her size, judging by Olivers note. Something good but not over the oddstheres loads of sales just before Christmas.

Weve got the money. Why not do something truly kind for once, David?

Im for it! Youre a gem, Emily.

David gave her a hug. It was a joy, knowing they were so in tune.

Next day, Emily bought a simple but lovely dark green dress, a pale pink fluffy dressing gown, tablets for Gran, chocolates, satsumas, and sparkly tree decorations. David thought Oliver might never have had a mobile, so he picked up an affordable smartphone.

They arranged with friends to borrow their costumes, and David bought a small fake Christmas tree for Oliverand another for themselves.

That evening, dressed up in their borrowed finery, they loaded presents into a big sack and set off for 12 Rose Lane. Charlie stayed with Emilys mum for the night.

The cottage was old, the fence leaning drunkenly. Light glowed from the windowsomeone was in.

David hoisted the tree, Emily the sack, and they crept up and rapped at the door.

Who is it?A tall, fair-haired woman in her mid-thirties answered, obviously Sarah, Olivers mum.

She froze in surprise at the sight of Father Christmas.

Oh! We didnt order anything… Are you sure youve got the right house?

Does Oliver Watson live here?

Yes, hes my son…

Mum, who is it?cried a young voice, as Oliver, in tracksuit bottoms and a jumper, darted out.

Wow! Father Christmas!

Hello, Oliver! I got your letter, so here we areme and my helper Holly. May we come in?

Mum, he got my letter! That man really did find it and post it! Brilliant! Come in!

Sarah grinned and waved them inside. Dorothy, the grandmother, emerged from a back roompetite, slender. When Oliver saw the tree, his eyes sparkled.

Is that our tree? Its beautiful and smells just like Christmas…

For you, Oliver! Every child ought to have a proper tree. Here are decorations tooyou can hang them all yourselves. And I have some presentsbut youve got to earn them. A song, a dance, or a poemtradition!

David made his voice as deep and rumbly as Father Christmas ought.

Oliver blushed with nerves, unable to conjure up a rhyme or tune. He gazed up adoringly at Father Christmas in his red robe and fur-trimmed hat.

I know youre a good lad, Oliver. My robin told me all about youhow you love your mum and gran and help out at home.

Lets see whats inside this bag for your family…

Oliver glanced at his mum for approval; she nodded.

Hesitantly, Oliver untied the sack and delved inside. There was a robe for Gran, neatly boxed, tied with a scarlet ribbon. Oliver removed the bow and box lid, gently unwrapping the dressing gown.

Gran, this is for you! Its in the letter!

For me? Oh heavens, well, I never…Dorothy fumbled with emotion as she slipped it on, tying the belt. A perfect fit.

Thank you, Father Christmas and… er… Holly! Ive never had anything so nice before.

Oliver then presented his mum with the dress, and gave Gran the tablets. Both looked utterly bewildered by this turn of events.

Next, out came a huge bag overflowing with chocolates and satsumas. At the top nestled a box with a brand new smartphone.

For me? My own phone? Thats amazing… Thank you so much, Father Christmas! I knew you were realreally real! You didnt let me down! Oliver yelled, happiness spilling over.

All the very best to your family, and a happy Christmas to you all! Time to head off now…

David and Emily gathered their empty sack and prepared to leave. Oliver was already prising open the phone box, eager to explore his new treasure.

Sarah and Dorothy followed them into the hallway.

Please, who are you? How do you know Oliver?

I found his letter and wanted, with my wife, to make a little magic for him. Please, take this letter and my work card. Were after an admin at my company, and youd be perfect for itif youd like the job.

Thank you, truly… This is all so unexpected. Oliver is over the moon; hes waited so long for a miracle, and youve made it happen…

David and Emily drove home in companionable silence, quietly delighted at the happiness theyd brought to a lovely boy and his family.

So often, its far more satisfying to give gifts than to receive themespecially when you witness that genuine, pure joy in a childs eyes.

Theyd no regrets about the pounds spent on presents. Money comes and goes; moments like these are priceless.

Who Slept in My Bed and Creased the Sheets… A Story My Husband’s Mistress Was Just Older Than Our Daughter—Chubby Cheeks, Innocent Eyes, Nose Piercing (He Forbade Our Daughter Ever Getting One)—Standing There Bare-Legged in a Cropped Jacket, and I Wanted to Snap: “If You’re Planning on Having Children With That Idiot, Buy a Coat and Wear Tights Under Your Jeans.” Of Course, I Said Nothing. I Just Handed Over the Keys, Grabbed My Bags of Leftover Belongings, and Headed for the Bus Stop. “Mum, Who’s Slept in My Bed and Creased My Sheets?”—When My Daughter Came Home Early, She Found the Young Nymph Drinking Cocoa From Her Favourite Mug, Wearing Her Slippers, While Her Dad Was in the Shower. It Was Just Like a Fairytale, But With Extra Betrayal. Unlike My Daughter, I Took It Calmly—Of Course, My Ego Was Bruised Seeing Such Youthful Beauty, But Mainly I Felt Relief After Years of Late-Night Calls and Coffee Shop Receipts From Places He Never Took Me. Even So, He Lied Shamelessly: “It’s Just the First Time—A Comet Fell From the Sky,” Yet That ‘Comet’ Turned Out to Be a Twenty-Year-Old Hotel Worker Who Chased Him All the Way to London. Sergei’s Flat Was His Before We Married, and Once I Filed for Divorce, My Daughter and I Had to Move Across Town to My Gran’s Old Place—She Hated The Daily School Commute, but Eventually We Settled in, New Jobs and Exams Keeping Us Busy and Distracted from Sadness. Sergei’s Mistress, Arianna, Phoned for Baking Advice and Turned Up Once With Forgotten Photos. She Marvelled at Our Faded Wallpaper—Not “Chic,” but It Was Home. Then, About a Year Later, Arianna Appeared at Our Door in Tears, Mascara Streaming: She’d Just Stumbled on Sergei With His Secretary Instead. Clutching Her Sports Bag, She Asked to Spend the Night and Borrow Train Fare Home. My Daughter Was Furious—It Was Her or Arianna. I Kept the Peace, Brewed Tea for the Distraught Mistress, and Eventually Put Her on a Train, Having Lent Her Money and Listened to Her Promise Never to Fall for Married Men Again. Sergei Called Later, Swearing He’d Changed and Wanted Us Back—“Running Out of Clean Laundry?” I Asked. I Didn’t Take Him Back, but I Didn’t Gloat Either—Instead, I Discovered a New Joyfulness, Adopted a Dog, Took Evening Walks, and Began to Smile More. I Even Befriended the Handsome Neighbour, Ten Years Older. Life, At Last, Moved On.

The Waiter Offered to Take Away the Kitten, But the Six-Foot-Two Gentle Giant Scooped Up the Fluffy, Crying Baby and Sat Him on the Next Chair: “A Plate for My Feline Friend! And Only Your Finest Steak!” — Let’s wear something daring, nearly as bold as the young nymphs, and head to the poshest restaurant in town. Time to flaunt ourselves and size up the gents… So declared one of the three friends—a headmistress of a prestigious and pricey private school, always armed with clever words as her profession demanded. These “nymphs” were all thirty-five—the perfect age, they believed, for miniskirts and blouses that highlighted their charms more than they concealed them. Deep necklines, flawless makeup—ready for battle. The venue was chosen accordingly: only London’s most exclusive, status-defining, and extremely expensive restaurant would do. Booking was easy, and soon they were catching admiring glances from the men and sneers from the men’s companions. Conversation, as always, revolved around the chief subject—men. Dreams, hopes, requirements. Each was waiting for her ideal—tall, fit, handsome, and, of course, rich. A man to sweep her off her feet, fulfill every whim, never chatter needlessly, nor burden her with chores. Nobility a bonus. — But absolutely not like those lot… The friends exchanged glances, nodding towards a trio of cheerful, slightly portly men with receding hairlines at a nearby table. Beer, crisps, and mountains of steak, football and fishing stories. Their laughter was loud, genuine, completely uninhibited. — Disgraceful. — So tasteless. — Ugh. Their verdict unanimous: scruffy, coarse, without a whiff of nobility—utterly wrong for such sophisticated ladies. And then, in a blink, everything changed. In came The Man—arriving in a scarlet Ferrari, the latest model. — Lord Coburg Saxon! — announced the waiter with great pomp at the entrance. The friends straightened like hounds catching a scent. Tall, sculpted, salt-and-pepper hair, a perfectly tailored suit that cost a fortune, diamond cufflinks, dazzlingly white shirt—the full package. — Oh my… — This is it… — Mmm… Necklines dipped even lower, eyes turned openly seductive. — Now that’s a real man, — one whispered. — A Lord, a stunner, and a millionaire, — crooned the second. — I’ve dreamed of the Bahamas since I was a child. The third said nothing, but her gaze spoke volumes. Within ten minutes, the ladies were invited to the lordly table. They walked tall, faces set in subtle disdain for the rest—including the three beer lovers. Lord Coburg was charming, sparkling in conversation, regaling tales of ancient lineage, ancestral estates, and rare art collections. Tension brewed—the invitation for the rest of the evening would go to just one. For now, gourmet distractions: lobsters, trays of seafood, aged wine. The ladies feasted, casting smouldering glances at the lord, their daydreams already far from the dinner table. Cheeks flushed—their beauty at its peak. Lord Coburg dazzled—joking, sharing high society stories. It mattered little where he might invite them next. At the restaurant, a small garden gave off tempting aromas even outside. Soon, a tiny, grey kitten emerged—skinny, hungry—and scooted under tables to sit at Lord Coburg’s feet, pleading for mercy. In vain. Lord Coburg’s face twisted in disgust. Without hesitation, he kicked the kitten away. The tiny creature flew across the floor and smacked into the table leg of our trio. A hush fell over the restaurant. — I despise filthy, mongrel creatures, — he declared loudly. — In my estate, we have pedigreed hounds and champion horses. The waiter rushed to soothe the situation: — Right away, sir, apologies… He aimed for the “beer” table, but one of the men was already on his feet. Huge, nearly six-foot-two, face flushed, fists clenched. Friends tried to hold him back. He silently picked up the kitten and sat him on a chair. — A plate for my furry friend! — he thundered. — Only the very best steak. Now. The waiter turned pale and dashed to the kitchen. Applause erupted across the restaurant. One of the “nymphs” silently rose, approached the gentle giant and declared: — Move over. And order a lady a whisky. Lord Coburg was struck dumb. A minute later, the other two friends joined, sparing Lord Coburg a scornful look. When the evening ended, not everyone left together. One new group—man, woman, and a grey kitten. Time passed. Today the first friend is married to the gentle giant—owner of a leading investment firm. The other two wed his mates, both famous lawyers. All three weddings happened on the same day. Now, the ex-“nymphs” lead a very different life: nappies, cooking, cleaning. Almost simultaneously, each welcomed a daughter. And, to sneak out for beloved dinners, they send their husbands off to football or fishing, call the babysitter and reunite to talk about life—the female kind and, of course, men. And Lord Coburg Saxon? A year later, he was arrested. Big scandal—serial conman preying on gullible women. As for real men? They’re the ones with bellies and thinning hair, no glitz or glory, but hearts of true nobility. That’s just the way it is. There’s no other way.