The Letter That Never Arrived
Grandma sat for a long while by the window, even though there was hardly anything to see. Dusk fell early in the garden, the lamplight outside flickered lazily, glowing then fading as if it couldn’t muster the energy. Rare dog and boot prints striped the thin frost, and somewhere a neighbour clattered with a shovel, then all was still again.
On her windowsill rested her wire-rimmed glasses and an old battered mobile, cracked across the screen. Now and then the phone buzzed briefly when some family photo or voice note arrived in the family chat, but today it was silent. The flat was quietquieter than she liked. The wall clock was all too loud, scissoring the seconds one by one.
She stood, padded to the kitchen, and flicked the light. The bulb cast a dim, yellowish circle. On the table was a bowl of cold stew, covered by a plate. Shed cooked it earlier, just in case anyone dropped by. No one had.
She sat at the table, picked up a dumpling, nibbled it, then set it aside; the dough had gone tough over the day. Edible, but joyless. She poured herself some tea from her old enamel kettle, listening as the water hissed into the mug, and, quite unexpectedly, sighed out loud.
It was a heavy sigh, so deep it felt like something had come loose from inside her and taken a seat on the little stool beside her.
What am I complaining for, she told herself. Everyones alive, thank heavens. Roof over our heads. Still, though
Still, recent conversations replayed in her mind. Her daughters voice, stretched thin as a high wire:
Mum, I cant do this anymore. Not with him. Hes at it again
And her son-in-laws, half-mocking:
Shes moaning to you, is she? Tell her life isnt always how shed like.
And then her grandson, Charlie: a sharp, indifferent Yeah whenever she asked how he was. Those yeahs hurt the most. He used to go on for hours about school, his mates. Hed grown up, of course. Even so.
They never raised their voices in front of her, never slammed doors. But something invisible hung between the words: snubs, silences, grievances nobody confessed. And she, as always, stranded between the two banks, trying not to say the wrong thing to either side. Sometimes she wondered if it was her faultmaybe she hadnt raised her daughter right, hadnt given the right nudge, or hadnt kept quiet when she should.
She sipped her tea, grimacing as it scalded her tongue, and then found herself recalling how, years ago, when Charlie was little, theyd written a letter to Father Christmas together. Hed formed the shaky words: Please could I have a train set, and please, can Mum and Dad stop arguing. Shed laughed at the time, ruffled his hair, told him Father Christmas would listen.
Now, remembering, she felt a prickle of shame, as though shed tricked the child. Mum and Dad had never stopped rowing. Theyd just got quieter.
She pushed the mug away, wiped the already-clean table with a cloth, and went to her bedroom to turn on the desk lamp. The light fell across her old writing table, which she scarcely used by hand anymoremostly typing, now: texts, emojis, voice notes. But her pen still sat in the mug amid pencils, beside a chequered notepad.
She paused, staring at them, when a strange, childish idea flickered: What if…
It was absurd, but somewhere deep inside, the thought warmed her. To write a letter againa real one, on paper. Not for toys. Just to ask. Not from people, each carrying their own baggage, but from someone who, in theory, owed nobody a thing.
She chuckled at herself. Old woman, lost the plot, off to write to a fairy-tale grandfather. But her hand reached for the notepad anyway.
She sat down, straightened her glasses, picked up the pen. The first page was crowded with old notes, so she turned over for a fresh start and, after a pause, scrawled: Dear Father Christmas,
Her hand shook. It felt silly, like someone was reading over her shoulder. She looked about the roomthe neatly made bed, the wardrobe with closed doors. No one.
Never mind, she muttered, and continued:
I know youre for the children, and Im an old woman now. I wont ask you for a coat, or a television, or any things. I have what I need. Theres just one thing I wish for: please let there be peace in our family.
Let my daughter and her husband stop quarrelling, let my grandson not retreat into silence. Let us sit at one table without fear of saying the wrong thing. I know people are to blame, not you, but maybe you can help, just a little. I probably havent the right to ask, but Im asking anyway. If you can, please help us to truly listen to one another.
Sincerely, Grandma Nora.
She read the letter again. The words seemed childlike, awkward, more like a childs picture than grown handwriting. But she didnt cross anything out. It felt betternot like speaking into a void, but confessing to someone.
The paper crackled under her fingers. She folded it, then folded it again, and stared at the little square in her hands, unsure what to do next. Through the window? Into the post box? Absurd.
She got up and fetched her bag from the hall. Remembered shed planned to go to the shop and post office tomorrow to pay her council tax. Ill drop it in the Father Christmas box then, she decided; they’ve put those up everywhere now. That thought cheered her a little. Not just her, then.
She slipped the letter in her bags side pocket with her passport and bills, and turned off the lights. The clock ticked in the silence. She lay down, tossing and turning a long time, listening to the hush before drifting off to sleep.
Next morning, she left earlier than usual, hoping to be back by lunch. Outside was icy, the snow crunching beneath her shoes. Her neighbour stood with her little dog by the front path, nodded, asked after her health. They swapped a few words, Nora gripped the strap of her bag, and kept walking.
The post office was busy. The queue for bill payments snaked to the counter. She joined the end, pulled out her bills and the folded letter. But there was no box for Father Christmass letters here now. Just the normal post slots on the wall, and a glass display of stamps and cards.
She hesitated. Well, she thought, thats that. She could have dropped the letter in the rubbish, but her hand wouldnt allow it. She tucked it away, paid her bills, and stepped back out into the cold.
By the post office, a little stall sold tinsel and toys. At the front was a cardboard box, stuck with Letters to Father Christmas. But it was empty, and the lady running the stall was peeling off the label.
All finished, Im afraid, she called, meeting Noras eye. Yesterday was the last day. Bit late nowthe mails gone.
Nora nodded, though she was in no particular rush. She thanked her, though for what she didnt know, and headed home. The letter was still in her bag, a warm little secretawkward to remember, impossible to throw out.
At home, she slipped off her shoes in the hall, hung up her coat, rested her bag on the stool to unpack later. Her phone vibrated in the pocket; a message from her daughter.
Mum, hello. Well pop round at the weekend, all right? Charlie wanted to ask about schoolsays youve got some of your old books.
Something inside Nora squeezed and then relaxed. So, theyd come after all. Perhaps things werent so bad. She typed back: Of course, come by. Ill be waiting.
Then went to the kitchen to put things away, and set a broth simmering. The letter lay untouched, forgotten in her bag on the stool.
On Saturday evening, footsteps rattled up the stairs, the flat door thudded. Nora peered out the peephole and saw the familiar shapes. Her daughter, clutching a shopping bag; her son-in-law with a cardboard box; Charlie, sling-bag over one shoulder. He was nearly as tall as the door frame now, skinny in a dark coat, hair poking from under his beanie.
Hi, Gran, he said first as he swung through, awkwardly kissing her on the cheek.
Come in, come in, she fussed, stepping aside. Take off your shoes, Ive got slippers for you.
At once, the corridor brimmed with noise and muddlestreet air, the icy scent, a whiff of something sweet in her daughters bag. Her son-in-law grumbled about the stairwell not being swept; Charlie wrestled with his trainers, catching the coat hook with his rucksack.
Mum, we can’t stay long, her daughter said, setting the bag down. Off to his parents tomorrow, remember.
I remember, I remember, Nora nodded. Come on to the kitchen, Ive made soup.
They sat around the kitchen, all lopsidedson-in-law by the window, daughter beside him, Charlie across from Nora. The soup went round in silence, just spoons clinking on plates. Eventually talk found its flowabout work, traffic, pricesa gentle current with tension swirling beneath, as if something dangerous might spill out at any moment.
Charlie, didnt you have a question about school? his mum prompted as the plates emptied.
Oh, right, Charlie seemed to come to life. Gran, have you got any books on World War Two? Our teacher said we could look up extra stuff.
I do, of course! Nora brightened. Theres a whole stack on the shelf. Come, Ill show you.
They disappeared to her room together. Nora switched on the desk lamp, reached for the old books up high.
Here, see she flicked through spinesthis ones about the Blitz, these about the Resistance, heres a memoir Any particular topic?
Dont know, Charlie shrugged, something thats not boring.
He stood next to her, head tipped, and Nora suddenly saw the little boy whod once perched on her lap, firing off endless questions. Now he was quiet, but the spark hadnt been lost in his eyes after all.
Try this one, she suggested, offering him a faded book. Its a good read. I liked it myself when I was your age.
He leafed through it. Thanks, Gran.
They talked a bit about his history teacherdecent, but a bit much sometimes, Charlie said. Nora listened, nodding, prodding now and then for more. It was enough just to hear his voice.
Soon her daughter poked her head in.
Charlie, were off in half an hourpack up.
He slipped the book into his bag and headed for the hall.
When they left, the corridor was crowded againbags, coats, scarves, Ring me, Dont forget, Ill send it later. Nora saw them down to the door and stood until the lift closed, then turned back into her flat.
Silence wrapped about her at once. She went to the kitchen to clear up. On the stool by the wall lay her bag with the hidden letter. She habitually reached into the pocket, touched the folded paper. For a moment she thought to rip it up, but instead tucked it deeper, snapping the zip shut.
She never knew that, while shed fetched the books, Charlie had brushed the bag with his foot when dropping his rucksack. It had nudged open, a white corner poking out. On a whim, hed pushed it back in, spotting Dear Father Christmas on the front and freezing.
He didnt take the letter then. The adults were too close, everything moved too quickly. But the writing stuck in his mind like a flashbulb.
That evening at home, unpacking the book from his bag, Charlie recalled it. The idea that his grannya grown womanwrote a letter to Father Christmas struck him as odd at first, then a little sad.
The next day he endured a family visit to other relatives, eating sandwiches, half-listening to adult talk, fiddling with his phone. But always, at the back of his mind, flickered the image of that folded letter.
A few days later, on his way home from school, he messaged Grandma: Grancan I pop over? Need to check something for history. She replied almost at once: Of course, come round.
He went round after school, rucksack on his back, headphones in. The block smelt of boiled veg and bleach. Grandma opened the door almost as soon as he knocked, as if shed been waiting just there.
Come in, Charlie, put your things down. Ive made pancakes, she said, moving into the hall.
He slipped off his jacket, dropped his rucksack beside the bag on the stool. The bag was half open again, a white edge peeking out. His stomach tightened a little.
While Grandma busied herself in the kitchen, stacking pancakes, he crouched down, as if to tie a shoelace, slid out the paper. His heart pounded. He knew, dimly, that what he was doing wasn’t quite right, but he couldnt stop himself.
He slipped the letter into the pocket of his hoodie, stood, and strolled to the kitchen.
Wow, pancakes, he said, acting casual. Brilliant.
They ate and chattedabout school, the weather, the coming holidays. Grandma kept asking if he was cold, if his shoes had holes. He brushed away her worries, joking.
Later, in her room, he pretended to read the old book. When it was time to leave, he did so as usual. Not a word was said about the letter.
At home in his room that evening, he finally unfolded it. He laid it on his kneesthe paper was a bit crumpled, corners bent. Her script, neat and looping.
At first he felt awkwardlike reading somebody elses diary. Then more uncomfortable, when he reached the line about my grandson shouldnt go silent on me.
He stopped, read it again. A lump formed in his throat. He remembered all the times lately hed brushed her off, kept his answers short, dodged her callsnot because he didnt care, just life. Mood, time, always something. But for her, it meant
He finished reading. The bit about peace, all at one table, about really hearing each other. An unexpected ache for his gran welled up, so strong he nearly wanted to go back that minute, hug her and promise it would all be fine. But that felt a bit dramatic, so he lay back, staring at the ceiling, the letter a white square against the covers.
Now what, he thought. Tell Mum? Dad? Theyd just scoff: whats all this for; why did she write that? Or get cross. Or start up another row. Hand the letter back, pretend hed just found it? Shed know hed read it. Shed be embarrassed. So would he.
He curled onto his side, face in his pillow. In his head, Noras words circled: so my grandson wont go quiet on me, so we can all share one table again. They were requests to Father Christmas, maybe, but felt more like requests to him.
At dinner, he tried to start: Mum, about Granbut always something got in the way. Dad asked about his coursework, Mum started ranting about her boss. In the end he just finished his pasta, eyes down.
That night he tossed and turned. The letter was folded in his desk drawerhe couldnt settle, knowing it was there.
The next day at school, during break, he told his mate hed found his grannys letter to Father Christmas. His friend laughed.
Thats a mad one. My granddad only believes in his state pension!
Its not funny, Charlie snapped, surprising himself with the sharpness.
His mate shrugged, changed topic. Charlie was left feeling curiously alone with his secret.
That evening he started to call Gran but hung up. Then he peered at the family group chatsalad photos, traffic jokes, calls to the office drinkssuperficial, safe, never anything like that letter.
He typed, Mum, why dont we do New Years at Grans? but deleted it before sending. He imagined her reply: Have you lost your mind? We’re already seeing Dads lot. More arguments, more weight.
Instead, he took out the letter, scanned it again. The words about one table stuck with him. A small idea stirreddaft, scary, almost funny.
Not New Years. Just supper. No special reason at all.
He found his mum on the sofa with her laptop.
Mum, he said from the doorway, how about um we all go to Grans? For dinner. Like proper family dinner.
She looked up, narrowing her eyes.
What do you mean? We go anyway.
Not for half an hour, proper dinner. Ill help cook.
She smirked. You? Cook? Thatll be the day. But we dont have time. Dads late, Ive my report.
Could do Saturday, he insisted. Otherwise were sat home anyway.
She sighed, rolled her eyes.
Charlie, Im not sure. Your dads going to grumble about wanting some peace. And
Mum, he cut her off, feeling his cheeks flush, shes lonely. You said so yourself. Just this once. Just to sit together.
He scarcely believed his own resolve. Mum eyed him for a moment, really looking.
All right, she said. Ill talk to your father. No promises though.
He nodded and left, ears burning. Awkward, but it felt like something. Not heroic, but a step.
That evening, he caught snatches of his parents talking in the kitchen.
Hes asking, Mum was saying, voice low. Can you imaginehe wants to go.
What would I do there? Dad grumbled. All health talk and pensions.
Shes all by herself, Mum replied quietly. And Charlie obviously cares.
There was a pause, then a tired sigh.
Fine. Well go Saturday.
Charlie returned to his room feeling hed won a small battleone more to go, with Gran herself.
The next day, he rang her.
Gran, hi. We… we’re all coming Saturday, for proper dinner. I thought Id come early and help you cook?
A brief pause.
Of course, come along, she replied. What shall we make?
Whatever you want. I can chop salad. Or potatoes.
Youve never chopped salad before, she laughed. No worries, youll learn.
On Saturday he showed up with two bags of foodtheyd shopped for ages with Mum.
My word, Gran said, seeing the haul. Feeding an army, are we?
Its fine, he shrugged, better too much than too little.
They peeled spuds together, diced the veg. Nora watched, correcting him now and then.
Not like that, tuck your fingers, youll slice them.
Its fine, he muttered, but did as he was told.
The kitchen filled with the smells of onions and frying meat, distant radio music. Outside, dusk crept over the back garden, odd passersby hurried somewhere.
Gran, he blurted, still cutting cucumber, do you erm believe in Father Christmas?
She started, so suddenly the spoon clanged on the pan. For a moment even the radio faded out.
Whatever brought that on? she asked, distractedly.
He shrugged, hiding his nerves.
No reason. Arguing at school, thats all.
She stirred the meat, turned off the hob, faced him. Her eyes held a quiet caution.
I did as a child. Then perhaps hes real, just not the sort you see on TV. Why?
No reason, he said, too quickly. Would be nice if he was, thats all.
They worked on together in silence after that. Both knew, without saying, what this was really about.
As evening marked, his parents came. Dad looked knackered, but not as gruff as usual. Mum brought a homemade tart.
Blimey, Dad said surveying the table, enough here for half the town.
Thats your son for you, Nora smiled. He helped.
Really? Dad eyed him. Didnt think you had it in you.
I survived, Charlie mumbled.
They sat, a bit stiff at first. Everyone picked their words carefully, wary of old rifts. But food worked its quiet magic. Soon, talk drifted to old storiesMum getting lost as a girl in the supermarket, Dad sharing tales from the office. Nora laughed, sometimes hiding her mouth with her hand.
Charlie watched, thinking of the letter. It felt as though there was another conversation happening between the linesone about being heard.
At one point, as she poured tea, Mum said gently:
Mum, Im sorry we dont come more often. Were always rushing.
It wasnt an excuse, just honest. Nora dropped her eyes, traced the rim of her saucer.
I know, she said softly. You have lives. I dont hold it against you.
Charlies chest pinched. He knew she did mind, though she denied it. But there was more kindness than blame in her words.
Still, he said, surprising himself. Doesnt have to be just holidays. Like today was, its fine.
Both parents looked up. Charlie blushed, but went on:
I mean, we could. No big deal.
Dad smiled, not sarcastically for once.
Not bad at all, he agreed.
Mum nodded.
Well try, she said, with a note of something freshless a promise, more a genuine effort.
Talk slipped back to universities and online tutors and A-levels. Nora followed, sometimes chiming in with her own opinions. Modern terms confused her, but she tried.
They packed up to leave, hunting for gloves, banging cupboard doors. Dad helped lift a heavy pot to the shelf, Mum wiped down the table.
Mum, she said, slipping on her coat, lets do this again soon. Ill let you know, all right?
Of course, love, Nora smiled. Id be glad.
Charlie lingered. He stood by her writing desk, pen and notepad sitting where hed always seen them. The letter was in his pocket now. Hed already decidedhe wouldnt give it back. Too much had been said to just return it.
Gran, he said, low, as his parents stepped into the hall, if you ever want us to do something different just say. No need to write it. Just tell us.
She watched him for a momentsurprised, a touch of softness in her gaze.
All right, she replied. If I ever need, Ill tell you.
He nodded, and left. The door clicked shut, the lift hummed away.
Nora was left in the quiet. She returned to the kitchen and sat. The table was strewn with mugs and plates, crumbs from tart. The aroma of meat and tea still haunted the air. She brushed the crumbs into a tidy pile with her hand.
Inside, she felt something strangenot joy, not bliss, just a shy, fresh feeling, as if someone had flung the window open for a breath of clean air. Of course, the arguments hadn’t vanished; she knew the rows would come again, and Charlie had his silences. But tonight theyd all drawn a little closer.
She thought of her letter. She didnt know what had happened to it. It might still be in her bag, she might have lost it, or perhaps someone had found it. But, she realised with a little shock, it almost didnt matter anymore.
She stood, and gazed out of the window. Under the streetlit tree, children played, rolling snow. A boy in a red bobble hat was laughing, his shout ringing up to her third-floor flat clear as a bell.
Nora rested her forehead against the cold glass and smiled. Just a small smilea quiet reply to someone far away, but whose message shed understood.
And in Charlies coat pocket, at home, the folded letter rested. From time to time, hed take it out, read a few lines, and hide it awaynot as a wish for magic, but as a nudge about what really matters to someone who makes you soup and waits for your call.
He never told anyone about the letter. But next time his mum complained she was too tired to visit Nora, he simply said,
Ill go see her on my own then.
And so he went. Not for Christmas or for any big occasion. Just because. It wasnt a miracle. Just another small step towards that kind of peace someone once wished for on a sheet of squared paper.
When Nora opened the door, she looked surprised but didnt ask questions.
Come on in, Charlie. Ive just put the kettle on.
And that was all it took for the flat to feel a little warmer again.
