A Sad Story Must Be Read

With her frail hands neatly folded in her lap, she sat in the armchair and stared at the faded photograph on the coffee table. She had only one picture of her son, James, left. The hollowness in Eleanor's eyes sharply contrasted with his frozen boyish grin. She had lost him ten years earlier, but the pain had not subsided. It had actually become sharper, cutting more deeply with each passing year. James had been her only child, her light in the darkness. He had always been enthusiastic, a little naughty, but always kind. She still remembered how he used to pick dandelions from the yard, presenting them to her as though they were the rarest of flowers. He would say, his little face beaming with pride, "For you, Mama." As she treasured each moment, Eleanor would always laugh and tuck them behind her ear. But time was cruel. The laughter faded, replaced by the sound of doctors whispering in sterile hallways, the beeping of machines, the hushed tones of condolences. James had been taken from her by cancer before he had even begun his life, like a nighttime thief. Eleanor had pleaded with every god she had ever heard of and begged the heavens, but nothing had changed the outcome. She had sung lullabies into the frigid air while holding his hand as he took his final breath. The world had become hazy after his death. The house, once lively, was now silent. Friends and family had come and gone, offering words of comfort that felt hollow. Grief had made its way into Eleanor's bones and become a permanent fixture. The days bled into each other, and soon, time lost all meaning.

Thomas, her husband, had made an effort to be strong for her, but even he felt the weight of their loss. When their feelings were running high, he had always been the voice of reason. But he changed after James passed away. His words became clipped and his laughter became forced. The following evening, he simply did not return home. The police had found his car at the edge of the river, but his body had never been recovered. The pain had been too much for him to bear, and he had chosen to let the water take him.

Since then, Eleanor had been truly alone. A mausoleum had replaced the once-warm and loving residence. She rarely left, rarely spoke. Waiting for time to take her, she merely existed. However, time was cruel and moved far too slowly for a broken-hearted woman. However, today was different. There was a knock at the door today. Eleanor’s heart jumped at the sound. She no longer received any visits. Not since the sympathy had diminished and the flowers had stopped coming. She hesitated before slowly rising from her chair, her joints aching with disuse. She took a deep breath when she got to the door before opening it. Uncertainty filled the young man's eyes as he stood on the porch. He was in his early twenties, with dark hair that curled slightly at the edges. Eleanor wasn't sure why, but there was something about him that she recognized. He stood up and held out an envelope while shaking his hands. “Mrs. Holloway?” He inquired softly. Unable to speak, Eleanor gave a nod. Before continuing to open the envelope, the young man gulped hard. "I... I think you should have this, but I don't know if this will make sense." Eleanor hesitated before taking it. She opened the envelope with trembling fingers and took out a single handwritten letter. The handwriting was unmistakable.

It was James’.

As she read the words, her tears blurred her vision and her breath caught in her throat. It was dated a few weeks prior to his passing. He talked about his life and the dreams he knew he would never achieve in it. In addition, he talked about her. “Mama,

If you’re reading this, then I’m not there anymore. I wish I could change that, but I am aware that you will be sad. But please, can you do something for me? Keep going. Even when it’s hard. Even when it feels impossible. I want you to find even the smallest reasons to smile. Mama, promise me. You promise not to let the sadness take control. I love you forever,

James”

Eleanor clutched the letter to her chest, her sobs breaking the silence of the house. She had spent so long drowning in grief that she had forgotten how to breathe. The young man awkwardly shifted, tears still streaming through his own eyes. “I was his friend,” he finally said, his voice hoarse. “He gave it to me before he got too sick. I was obligated by him to bring it to you when I believed you needed it most. Eleanor focused on his face as she looked up at him. And all of a sudden, she saw it: the young man's kind eyes and ghostly features of her son. She reached out, grasping his hand with a strength she didn’t know she had.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

She also experienced something other than grief for the first time in ten years. She felt hope.