After 20 Years, Postman Finally Brought Lonely Old Man Dozens of Lost Letters Meant for Him — Story of the Day

I thought my days were all the same: black coffee in my old copper pot, crosswords, and the neighbor who insisted I needed her more than I wanted. But the morning the postman knocked with a bundle of letters lost for twenty years, everything changed.

I always wake up at six a.m., even if I have nowhere to go. Old habit from my years at the post office. Once your body gets used to early mornings, it won’t let you sleep in.

My alarm clock is the creak in my knees and the complaints in my back. Some people meditate, some scroll through the news on their phones.

Me? I brew coffee in my father’s old copper cezve. And yes, I drink it black, no sugar. My dad used to say,

“Sweetness kills courage.”

Whether he was right or not, it had become my ritual.

The moment I sat down with my paper, the window sighed. That's Gloria peeking in from her yard. She always knows when I'm awake. I swear she sets her watch by my coffee.

“Morning, Walter!” Her voice was like a kettle just before it whistles. “You’re up early. Again.”

“Gloria, it’s called discipline,” I muttered behind the paper. “Some of us have it.”

Five minutes later, she was already at my porch with a basket. Inside: buns and jam, innocent-looking, but I knew better. They were her ticket inside.

“Thought you could use some company,” she said, handing me the basket.

“Company? I’ve got the crossword.”

She chuckled. “Walter, you can’t spend all your days with puzzles. This house is too big for one person. You need someone here. Someone like… well, me.”

I set the basket down on the step.

“You mean someone to boss me around? My late wife already held that title.”

“Don’t be cruel. I care about you. Who else checks if you’ve taken your pills? You think Ray, the postman, will do that?”

As if on cue, a knock thundered at the door. Gloria frowned, annoyed at the interruption. I opened it and blinked at the sight of Ray holding a thick bundle of envelopes in both arms.

“Since when do you deliver the mail straight into my hands, Ray?”

He shifted on his feet, sheepish.

“Well, uh… there’s been a bit of a mishap at the depot. Some letters… didn’t get delivered. For a while.”

“Speak clearly,” I barked. “How long is a while?”

“Couple of decades, maybe. Twenty years.”

Before I could reach for the letters, Gloria darted forward and snatched the bundle from his hands.

“That can’t be! All these addressed to—” She stopped herself, clutching them tight.

“Gloria, give them here,” I said.

“No, Walter, it’s probably a mistake—”

“Gloria! They’re mine.”

I tore the bundle from her grasp. The envelopes were yellowed, corners worn, but every one of them bore my name. My heart hammered as I ripped one open with trembling fingers. Inside — a child’s uneven handwriting.

“Dear…”

The room spun. My knees buckled, and I sank into the chair by the door.

Gloria’s voice rattled on — something about scams, tricks, but I didn’t hear her. I clutched the letter, the words swimming before my eyes.

“I have to go,” I whispered. “I have to go. Now.”

I shoved the rest of the letters under my arm and reached for the hook by the door where my car keys still hung, a little rusty Ford emblem. Gloria gasped and planted herself between me and the door.

“Where are you even planning to go? You don’t know what’s waiting for you. All you know is you’ve got me here taking care of you. Who else do you think you matter to, huh?”

I brushed past her. “Apparently, someone who wrote every year for twenty years.”

“And what if it’s a lie? What if they wanted something from you — money, this house? You’ll make a fool of yourself!”

I pocketed the keys.

“Better a fool on the road than a prisoner in his own kitchen.”

She stamped her foot like a child. “One day you’ll realize I’m the only one who truly cares for you!”

I turned back just long enough to meet her eyes. “If that’s true, Gloria, then you’ll be happy for me.”

And with that, I stepped onto the porch. My old Ford sat in the driveway, sun glinting off its dusty hood like it was waiting for me. I slid into the driver’s seat, set the first opened letter on the passenger side, and gripped the wheel.

The engine coughed, sputtered, then roared awake after a few stubborn tries. Behind me, Gloria shouted something I couldn’t hear. I stepped on the gas.

For twenty years, someone had been calling out to me in ink and paper. And for the first time in a long while, I felt like I finally had somewhere to go.

***

I drove with both hands clamped on the wheel. My chest felt tight, but I pushed on, telling myself it was just the excitement. Then the pain came sharper, sudden, under my ribs.

My hands slipped, and the Ford swerved toward the shoulder.

Everything blurred. Horn, sky, the smell of burnt rubber...

And then nothing.

When I opened my eyes again, the ceiling was white, the air smelled of antiseptic, and someone was adjusting a drip near my arm. A nurse muttered, “You’re lucky, old man.”

Lucky wasn’t the word. Because the next voice I heard was Gloria’s.

“There you are! You gave us all quite the scare.”

I groaned, trying to sit up.

“I have to go. You don’t understand. I have to keep driving.”

Gloria leaned closer, her smile too sweet. “The doctor said it's nervous exhaustion. And the keys to your car?” She dangled them in the air. “They gave them to me. For your own good.”

I stared at her. “You behind the wheel, Gloria? That’s more dangerous than me with a bad heart.”

Her eyes flashed. “Don’t joke. You’re not going anywhere. I’ll take you home where you belong.”

“I’m not going home.”

“You’ll have to. The car is mine now, unless you plan on walking.”

I pulled the IV out with a wince and swung my legs to the floor.

“That’s not a problem. There are plenty of other cars in this world. And some of them stop for hitchhikers.”

Before she could block me, I shuffled toward the exit. Outside, the road shimmered in the afternoon sun, and I raised my thumb to the first truck I saw coming.

“Let’s see if destiny has better brakes than you do, Gloria.”

The pickup slowed when it saw me waving. A young man leaned out the window, his grin wide.

“Need a lift, sir?”

“Unless you’re heading straight to heaven, anywhere will do,” I said, climbing in.

“City’s on my way. I can drop you there.”

“Good enough,” I muttered, clutching the bundle of letters.

We rode in silence at first. Then he glanced at me.

“So… those letters you’re carrying. Important, huh?”

I tightened my grip on the bundle.

“They’re not just letters. They’re… a voice. Twenty years of it.”

“From whom?”

I let out a bitter laugh. “That’s the thing. I didn’t even know she existed. My daughter.”

“Your daughter?”

“Yeah. Apparently, her mother told her about me before she died. And that little girl… Mia… she kept writing. Every year.”

“No way… Like my mom’s name!”

“Birthdays, Christmas, and the first day of school. All those milestones a father’s supposed to share. She sent them to me. And the post lost them. Twenty years’ worth.”

The boy was silent for a moment, his eyes on the road, lights of passing cars flashing across his face. Then he said softly,

“That’s… heavy. How do you even process something like that?”

“I don’t. I just know I can’t waste another day sitting in that empty house. She thought I didn’t care. That I ignored her. And maybe she hates me now. But I need her to hear me say I didn’t know.”

“You’ve got guts. Most people would hide from something like that.”

“Most people don’t have much time left. I’m not young anymore. Whatever’s waiting for me at the end of these letters… It’s my last chance.”

The boy’s grin returned. “You sound a little like me, just from the other side of life. I keep telling myself not to waste time, to chase what matters.”

I looked at him properly, feeling something warm settle in my chest.

“Then don’t. Don’t wait twenty years to answer someone’s call. You’ll regret it. Trust me.”

The glow of the city appeared ahead, growing brighter as we drew closer.

“So,” the boy said, “where should I drop you?”

I handed him the address scrawled on the last envelope. His knuckles whitened on the wheel.

“That’s… that’s my house.”

I stared at him, the letters trembling in my hands.

“Your house?”

He nodded, eyes wide. “Yeah. That’s where my mom lives. And if those letters are from who I think they’re from… then you’re not just any old man. You’re my grandfather.”

***

The pickup slowed in front of a small house with lights glowing warmly in the windows. My hands trembled around the bundle of letters.

“She’s inside,” the boy said softly. He hesitated, then added, “I called her. Told her I was bringing someone… important.”

I turned to him. “What’s your name, son?”

“Ethan. And Mia’s my mom. Your daughter.”

The words rattled in my chest like a second heartbeat.

The porch creaked under my weight as I climbed the steps. The door opened before I could knock. Mia was there, a woman in her thirties, eyes wide, lips trembling. Her gaze locked on the letters in my hands, then lifted to my face.

“Dad?”

I nodded, my voice breaking. “I didn’t know, sweetheart. They never gave me your letters. I swear, I never knew.”

Her tears spilled over. “Ethan told me… he said you were finally coming. I waited twenty years for this.”

I held out the bundle.

“I read your first letter. And I knew I had to come.”

She pressed her hand to her mouth, then rushed forward, and suddenly she was in my arms.

Ethan’s voice came softly from behind us. “Told you, Mom. He’s here now.”

I held her tighter, feeling the years of silence crumble. “I can’t give you back those twenty years. But I can give you every day I’ve got left. If you’ll let me.”

She looked up and smiled through tears. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

For the first time in decades, I wasn’t just an old man with crosswords and coffee rituals. I was a father. A grandfather. A man who still mattered.

And as the three of us stood there on that porch, I knew: some letters aren’t lost. They’re simply waiting for the right moment to be delivered.

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