A Letter That Never Reached Its Destination
Gran sat by the lounge window for what felt like ages, though the view outside was nothing to write home about. The garden was already shrouded in early darkness, the lamplight flickering half-heartedly on and off as if debating whether to bother. Across the wintry lawn, a stray dogs pawprints cut a winding line beside faint boot tracks. Somewhere invisible, Mrs. Cartwrightthe caretakerscraped a shovel over stones, then the silence thickened again.
On the window sill, her wire-framed glasses rested beside an old mobile with a hairline crack spidering across the screen. Occasionally it would give a muted buzz whenever a photo or voice clip tumbled into the family WhatsApp, but tonight the phone lay still. The flat was eerily quiet. The old clock on the wall seemed to measure every second twice as loudly as usual.
Eventually, she heaved herself up and made her way into the kitchen, flicking on the light. The bulb cast a weak, yellow circle onto the table, where a bowl of cold dumplings sat, covered by a plate. Shed cooked them earlierjust in case someone dropped by. No one had.
She sat at the table, picked up a dumpling, nibbled, and put it aside. The pastry had gone rubbery. Edible if you were hungry, but no joy in it. She poured herself a cup of tea from her battered old enamel kettle, listening to the glugging water, and, to her surprise, let out a sigh.
It was a heavy sigh, like her heart had briefly slipped from her chest and plopped onto the stool beside her.
What am I moaning about, she chastised herself. Everyones alive, thank heavens. A roof over my head. And yet
Yet, fragments of recent conversations floated up, uninvited. Her daughter Lizzies voice, taut as piano wire:
Mum, I cant go on like this with him. Hes at it again
Then her son-in-law, Paul, always that hint of smirk:
Shes moaning to you, yeah? Tell her not everything goes her way in life.
And her grandson, Tom. Now only tossing a non-committal yeah down the phone when shed ask about his day. That hurt most. He could talk for hours once, about mates, about lessons. Now he was older, of course. Still
They never raised their voices in front of her or slammed doors. But some invisible wall hovered between every word, small jabs and unfinished sentences, silent wounds unclaimed. She felt like a shaky bridge between banksone moment siding with Lizzie, the next with Paul, doing her best not to slip up. Sometimes it all felt like her fault, that she hadn’t guided them right, or kept her mouth shut when she shouldve spoken.
She took a sip of tea, winced as she burnt her tongue, and then remembered, suddenly and vividly, a winter when Tom was little and theyd written a letter to Father Christmas together. He had painstakingly written out: Please could I have some Lego, and for Mum and Dad to stop arguing. Back then, shed laughed and stroked his hair, promising Father Christmas would listen.
Now, that memory brought only a prick of guilt, as though shed fibbed to a child. His parents had never really stopped arguing; theyd just learnt to do it more quietly.
She pushed the mug aside, wiped the already spotless table with a napkin, then made her way back to the lounge. She switched on the lamp, casting a golden pool onto her writing deska desk she barely used for letters these days. Mostly she sent messages, emojis, the odd voice note from her phone. Still, a biro remained among the pencils in a mug, and a battered notebook, squared, lay close by.
She stood watching them for a moment, then a daft idea nipped at her: What if
The thought was childish, silly evenbut oddly warming. What if she wrote a letter on paper. Not for a present. Just to ask. Not from people, all weighed down with their own stuff, but someone who, on principle, owed nothing to anyone.
She gave a dry chuckle. Daft old bird, she thought. Writing to Father Christmas. But her hand was already reaching for the pad.
She sat, adjusted her glasses, unscrewed the pen. On the first page were a jumble of old notes, which she ignored, flipping to a clean sheet. She hesitated, then slowly wrote: Dear Father Christmas.
Her hand shook. She felt a flush of embarrassment, as though someone were peeking over her shoulder. She glanced about the empty room, tidy bed, wardrobe with doors firmly closed. Nobody in sight.
Silly old thing, she muttered, and continued:
I know youre really for the children, and Im an old lady now. But I dont want a coat, or a telly, or anything like that. Ive got all I need. I just want one thing: please, could you help bring a bit of peace to our family.
Please help my daughter and son-in-law stop bickering, and for my grandson Tom not to be so silent around us. Please let us all sit at one table without worrying someone might say the wrong thing. I know its us humans at faultnot youbut maybe you can help. I probably havent the right to ask, but Im asking anyway. If you can, let us really hear each other.
Yours sincerely, Edna.
She read it through. The words looked naïve, awkward, like a childs painting, but she didnt cross them out. For some reason, she felt lighter, as if shed spoken aloud to someone who was truly listening.
The paper crackled under her fingertips. She folded it in half, then again. Sat there for a minute, unsure. What now? Toss it out the window? Pop it in the postbox? Silly really.
She got up, fetched her bag. She remembered that tomorrow she had errands: a trip to the Co-op and the post office to pay the council tax. Perhaps she would drop the letter in one of those Father Christmas postboxesthey had them at the precincts this time of year. That made her feel less daftnot the only one after all.
She popped the letter into an inside purse pocket, alongside her ID and bills, then switched off the light. Once more, only the clock kept vigil. She went to bed, turned this way and that, and finally drifted into sleep.
In the morning, she set off early, hoping to avoid the midday rush. The pavements were slick with frost, snow squeaking under her boots. At the door, Mrs. Miller was out walking her spaniel, nodded, asked after her knees. They exchanged a few words, then Edna went on, clutching her handbag strap tightly.
The post office was heaving. The queue snaked to the counter where people paid their bills. Edna shuffled to the end, fished out her bills and the folded letter. There was no Father Christmas postbox inside, only the regular ones on the wall and a display of cards and stamps.
She hesitated. Well done, she thought sardonically. Youve outdone yourself. She thought of chucking the letter in a bin, but couldnt. She stuffed it back into her purse, settled her council tax, and left.
Outside the post office, a pop-up stall sold toys and tinsel. Dangling from the awning was a cardboard box, with a sticker: Father Christmas Letters. But the box was empty, and the girl behind the stall was peeling off the tape.
All collected now, she said, catching Ednas eye. Yesterday was the last day. Too late for this year, Im afraid.
Edna smiled, thanked her politelythough there was no reason for thanksand made her way home. The letter remained in her bag, a little bundle of warmth she couldnt forget and couldnt throw away.
Back in the flat, she slipped off her shoes, hung up her coat, and perched her bag on the stool, meaning to sort the shopping later. Her phone gave a gentle vibration inside her coat. She fished it out: a message from Lizzie.
Mum, hi. Can we pop by at the weekend? Tom needs to ask you something about schoolhe says youve got some old books.
Something inside clenched, then relaxed. They were coming. So it wasnt all hopeless. She typed out a reply: Of course, Ill be waiting.
She unpacked the groceries, set about preparing stock for soup. The letter remained tucked in her bag, all but forgotten.
By Saturday evening, hallway footsteps echoed outside, and the front door thudded shut downstairs. Edna peered through the peephole, and saw the familiar shapes: Lizzie with a bag, Paul lugging a box, Tom with his rucksack slung over one shoulder. He seemed to fill the doorway nowthin, all limbs, hair peeking from his beanie.
Hi, Gran, he said, stepping in first and bending rather awkwardly for a kiss on the cheek.
Come in, come in, Edna fussed, retreating to let them through. Shoes off, Ive put slippers ready.
Suddenly, the little hallway was cramped and noisywinter scents, sugar wafting from one of Lizzies carrier bags, Paul grumbling about the state of the communal stairs, Tom tugging at his trainers, and his rucksack knocking the coat rack.
Mum, we cant stay long, Lizzie said as she dropped her carrier onto the mat. Tomorrow were with Pauls parentsyou remember.
I do, I do, Edna nodded, steering them into the kitchen. Come on through, soups just ready.
They sat around the table, not quite comfortably; Paul near the window, Lizzie beside him, Tom opposite Edna. They poured soup in silence, spoons clinking, until, naturally, talk startedtraffic, work, prices. Words trickled along, smooth enough, but troubled currents ran underneath.
Tom, didnt you want to ask about school? Lizzie piped up once the bowls were empty.
Ah, yeah, Tom blinked as if surfacing. Gran, have you got any books on the war? Teacher says we can read extra stuff.
I certainly have, Edna brightened. Whole shelf of them, come on, Ill show you.
They went to the lounge together. Edna flicked on the lamp, reached up to the highest shelf, and started sifting through battered spines.
Herethis ones about the Home Front, this ones first-hand accounts… she explained. Any particular thing youre after, love?
Not really, Tom shrugged. Just not too dull, I guess.
He stood beside her, head tilted, and suddenly, in the curve of his jaw, the flicker of his eyes, she glimpsed the child who had once peppered her with endless questions. He didnt say much now, but there was interest in his gaze.
Try this, she handed over a faded hardback. Its livelyI read it myself, years ago.
He leafed through the pages. Thank you, Gran.
They chatted a bit about school, about his history teachernot bad, but goes on a bitand Edna asked the right questions, basking simply in the fact that he was talking to her.
Soon Lizzie appeared in the doorway, Tom, well need to get going in half an hour, all right?
Yeah, okay, he nodded, slotting the book in his rucksack and heading back to the hallway.
When they left, there was another burst of hustlebags, jackets, Text me when youre home, Ill send that link later. Edna saw them out, waited as the lift doors closed, then returned to the lull of the empty flat.
Silence seemed to drop like a thick blanket. She tidied the table. On the stool beside the wall, her bag lay with the letter still tucked inside. She slipped her fingers into the purse, found the creased note. For a moment, she thought about tearing it up, but instead zipped it shut and buried it deeper.
Unbeknownst to her, back in the hallway earlier, as Tom pulled off his bag, hed accidentally nudged her handbag, dislodging the purse so a corner of the letter poked out. He shoved it back in, noticed the Dear Father Christmas scrawled on top, and froze.
He didnt take the letter thentoo many grown-ups about, everything rushed and muddled. But the words stuck with him, sharp and unexpected.
That evening, sorting his bag at home and finding the history book, he remembered the letter. The idea that granpractical, grown-up granhad written to Father Christmas seemed first funny, then odd, then, for some reason, unbearably sad.
The next day, visit to the other relatives blurred bysalads, grown-ups chatter, him scrolling on his phone. But that white sliver hovered at the edge of his mind.
A few days later, walking home from school, Tom messaged, Gran, can I pop round? Need a hand with history. She replied at once: Of course, dear.
He dropped by after lessons, rucksack in tow, headphones round his neck. The stairwell smelled of boiled cabbage and bleach. As soon as he knocked, Gran opened up, as if shed been standing by the door.
Come in, Tom, hang up your coat. Ive made pancakes, she beamed at him.
He unzipped his parka, left the bag on the same stoolher handbag, as before, slightly ajar, the letter peeking through. He felt a twinge in his chest.
With gran bustling in the kitchen, sliding pancakes onto a plate, Tom quietly reached over, as if tying his shoe, and slipped the letter out. His heart hammeredhe knew this wasnt honest, but the urge was stronger.
He tucked the letter into his hoodie pocket and straightened up.
Oh, pancakes, he said, trying to sound normal. Brilliant.
They chatted about the usualschool, the weather, the coming holidays. She asked if he was warm enough, if his boots were falling apart. He rolled his eyes, made jokes.
Later they went to the lounge and he leafed through his borrowed book; he left at the usual time, hoping nothing seemed off.
Only in his own room did he finally unfold the letter. Sat on the bed, staring at the handwritingneat, curly, a little old-fashioned. He started to read.
For the first time it felt as though he was eavesdropping on something private, sacred. He reached the line about for grandson Tom not to sit silent like a strangerand he stopped, reading it over and over. A lump formed in his throat.
He thought about all the recent monosyllabic replies, the times hed dodged her callsnot because he didnt love her, just too tired, too busy, not in the mood. But to herhow did it look?
He finished the letter: about peace, about gathering round the table, about truly hearing each other. Suddenly, he felt such a fierce tenderness for Gran that he wanted to run over at once and hug her, to promise that it would all be fine. But the feeling was embarrassing, cloying at the same time.
He lay on his back, letter beside himwhite paper against navy duvet. What now? Tell Mum? Dad? Theyd laugh, maybe snap at Gran for being silly. Or get defensive. Or argue more. Should he give the letter back, say he found it by accident? Shed know hed read it. Then she would be ashamed. So would he.
He turned on his side, face in the pillow, snippets repeating: for grandson Tom, to sit round one table. The plea felt less aimed at Father Christmas than at him.
That night, during dinner, Tom tried twice to bring it up: Mum, about Gran but each time, something else interruptedDad on about his work, Mum on about her boss. He fell into silence and finished his meal without looking up.
He tossed and turned that night, the letter folded away in his desk drawer. It haunted him, quietly.
Next day at school, he told his best mate about the letter from his gran. The mate just laughed: Blimey. My nan only believes in two thingsCrossword Puzzles and her pension.
Not funny, Tom muttered, surprised at his own sharpness.
The mate shrugged and changed the subject. Tom was left alone with his uneasy burden.
That evening, he picked up his phone, dialled Gran’s number, then cut the call before it rang. On the family chat he scrolled through the latest: a snap of someones prawn cocktail, a joke about London traffic, a cant wait till Friday drinks!all casual, safe, surface. No sign of letters.
He typed, Mum, should we go to Grans for Christmas? and instantly deleted it. He could hear his mothers exasperationplans already made with Dads parents. The inevitable row would follow.
He sat, looking at the letteropened it again, stared at the words about peace and tables together. Thats when a daft, brave idea glimmerednot Christmas, maybe, but what about dinner, just them, no occasion?
He found his mum tapping at her laptop in the lounge.
Mum, he started, hesitant in the doorway, how about we all go round Grans one evening? Like, a proper dinnernot just a flying visit. Ill even help cook.
Mum raised an eyebrow. You? In the kitchen? Well, thats new. But your dad gets in late, Im behind with work
We could do Saturday, he insisted. No ones doing anything.
She leaned back, looking at him closely, as if seeing a side of him she hadnt noticed before.
All right, she said, finally. Ill ask your dad, but cant promise.
Tom nodded, cheeks burning. It wasnt a heroic act, but it was something.
That evening he overheard his parents in the kitchen.
He wants us round to your mums, his mother was saying. Can you imaginehe suggested it himself.
What for? his dad grumbled. All shell do is talk about the NHS and the bin collection.
Shes on her own, and clearly Tom cares, came the gentle reply.
Silence, then Dad sighed. All right. Saturday it is.
Tom went to bed feeling like hed won a small, private victory. Next came Gran.
He phoned her the next day.
Gran, hi. We well come round Saturday. For dinner. Actually, could I come early to help cook?
A short silence.
Of course you can, darling. What shall we make?
Whatever you like. I could chop salad. Or potatoes.
You? Chop salad? Well, theres a first time for everything.
Saturday, he arrived arms laden with shopping bags he and his mum had picked up.
Good heavens, Gran exclaimed, are we opening a restaurant?
Its fine, better too much than too little, Tom mumbled.
They peeled potatoes, chopped veg. Edna kept a beady eye on him as he wobbled with the knife.
Youll take a finger off if youre not careful.
Sall right, Gran, he grumbled, but took note.
A delicious swirl of frying onions, sizzling meat, and hot kettle filled the kitchen. Radio 2 played faintly in the corner, dusk gathering outside.
Gran, he asked, pretending to focus on the cucumber, do you believe in Father Christmas?
She flinched so obviously her spoon clattered against the pan. The radio seemed to hush as well.
Wheres that come from? she said, not turning.
Just something. Kids were arguing at school.
She stirred, switched off the hob, turned to him, eyes careful.
I did, once. Maybe hes real, in a wayjust not like on the telly. You know?
Makes sense, Tom shrugged. Would be nice, if he was.
They stood in a friendly hush. She bent over the food again. Inside, he felt on edge, but lighterthe words about Father Christmas held a different meaning for both of them now.
By evening, his parents had arrived. His dad, tired from work but not sour; his mum with a homemade pie.
Heavens, Dad said, surveying the feast. Youve cooked enough for the British Army.
Your son helped, Edna grinned.
No! Dad feigned shock. You sure youre feeling all right, mate?
Hardly fell to bits, did I? Tom retorted.
At first, conversation was stilted, everyone treading carefully, but food did its usual magic. Stories bubbled upfunnier memories from Lizzies childhood, Dads tales from work, Grans soft laughter filling the kitchen.
At one point, as she poured tea for everyone, Lizzie murmured, Mum, Im sorry we hardly see you. Its all rush and chaos these days.
She didnt say it as an excuse, just a fact.
Edna traced patterns around her saucer rim. I know, love. You have your own lives. I dont blame you.
Toms chest tightened. He knew she was hurt all the same.
Still, he piped up, surprising himself, we could do this sometimes. Not just for birthdays or Christmas.
The grown-ups looked at him, startled. He pressed on, Just, like today. It was nice.
His dad gave a genuine smile. Yeah. Not half bad.
Mum nodded, promising, but without grand gesturesjust a readiness to try.
Talk drifted toward Toms plans after school, A-levels, whether private tutors were worth the money. Gran chipped in where she could, even if terms like online revision baffled her. She was trying.
As they got their coats on and started for the doorclutter of bags, gloves, remindersLizzie called back, Mum, lets do this again soon. Ill let you know, all right?
Id love that, darling, Edna smiled.
Tom lingered in the lounge. On Grans desk, the notebook and pen lay as though waiting. Her letter was gonetucked deep in his pocket. Hed long decided not to return it. Too much truth inside.
Gran, he said quietly when the others were halfway out, if you ever want us to do something different, just tell us. You dont need to write to anyone. Just us.
She eyed him with surprise, then her features softened.
All right, love, she said. If ever I do, Ill say so.
He nodded, following the family into the lift.
Alone again, Edna cleared the table. The faint traces of laughter, talk, and roast meat clung to the house. She gathered cake crumbs with her palm and paused.
Something inside had shiftednot joy, exactly, but a fresh draft gently moving the air. Quarrels hadnt vanished. She knew Lizzie and Paul would still argue, Tom had secrets she didnt understand. Still, tonight, it felt a little as though everyone had drawn closer, despite everything.
She thought about the letter. She no longer minded where it had ended up. Maybe it was lost, maybe someone had found it. It somehow didnt matter.
She went to the window. Winter dusk had settled over the communal back garden. High under the lamp post, children were building snowmen, their laughter ringing up to the third floor.
Edna pressed her forehead to the cold pane and smiled, barely. As if answering a quiet call in the dark.
And in the pocket of Toms coat, now hung beside the familys front door, the folded letter rested. Sometimes, hed fish it out, read a line or two, then tuck it awaynot as a wish for magic, but as a reminder of what truly matters to someone waiting for your call and cooking you soup.
He never mentioned the letter. But, when next time his mum said she was too busy for Gran, Tom replied mildly, Ill pop over and see her, then.
And he did. No holiday, no reason. Just because. It wasnt a miracle. Just another tiny step toward that peace someone, once, had wished for, on squared paper, in blue pen.
Edna, opening the door, looked startled, then simply smiled.
Come in, Tom, she said, the kettles just on.
And for now, that was enoughand the flat felt a little warmer for it.
The lesson, I suppose, is this: peace isnt something you ask for as a present; its something you build, one awkward act of care at a time, by simply choosing not to wait for someone elsebe they real or make-believeto do it for you.
