Old, worn out, and carrying a battered suitcase, that man that I spotted on the highway that freezing December night was a haunting silhouette against the snow.
Against my better judgement, I pulled over and asked the old man why he was all alone in the middle of the highway during the night. With fear and desperation in his eyes, he said he was trying to get to Milltown where his family was waiting for him.
“Miltown?” I frowned. “That’s a day’s drive from here. You are going to freeze, please get inside the car,” I said.
My children were waiting for me to get home on time for Christmas Eve, and I couldn’t disappoint them, not after their father left us for another woman.
The old man, who introduced himself as Frank, got into my car slowly, holding his suitcase tightly, as though he carried everything he had in the world inside it.
Realizing his face was red from the cold and his hands were numb, I turned up the heater.
“Do you really have family in Miltown?” I asked.
Shyly, he answered, “Of course I do,” but the expression of his face said otherwise.
“So why they didn’t come to pick you up?” I asked further, feeling like intruding his privacy.
“You know, life’s busy and they had other things to do,” he said.
I couldn’t drive to Miltown and miss spending Christmas Eve with my kids who were at my parents’ place, but I also couldn’t leave the old man, who wore a thin coat that barely protected him from the harsh wind, alone and out in the cold.
After hesitating for a while while stealing gazes at him, I uttered, “We can’t reach Miltown this night, but you are welcome to stay at my parents’ place and we’ll figure something out in the morning.”
Frank felt uncomfortable, but I assured him it would be fine.
My parents were very welcoming, and my kids embraced his presence. He shared with them stories about what the celebration of Christmas Eve was like when he was a child.
After dinner, I showed him his room. He thanked me and said good night, but he then started crying.
“Maria, you’ve been so kind to me, and I’ve been lying to you,” he said as his voice broke.
“What do you mean,” I asked, confused.
“I don’t have a family in Miltown,” he confessed. “I ran away from a nursing home where I was abused. Not only I, but the rest of the residents too. My life was a living hell. I didn’t say anything because I was afraid you would return me there.”
“Oh, Frank,” I said as I extended my hand to him. “Don’t worry, I won’t ever return you somewhere you weren’t treated right.”
In the morning, he told me everything about the life at the nursing home. I promised to help him expose the truth about that place and help the rest of the people who lived there and were mistreated.
The process was grueling. It required endless paperwork and a bunch of painful memories, but at the end, the investigation revealed widespread neglect.
Members of the staff were fired and the nursing home underwent reforms.
Frank then returned to the nursing home, but he became a frequent visitor of our home. Often, he would spend a couple of days at our place, sharing stories, love, and laughter with my children who adored him.
One evening, he stopped by, carrying a carefully wrapped painting.
“This painting is a very valuable one. It belonged to my late wife, and now it’s yours. It’s a thank you gift for everything you’ve done to me,” Frank said.
Who knew that the old man I welcomed in my parents’ home that chilly December night would become a valuable member of our family. Our friendship with Frank was a reminder that every act of kindness, no matter how big or small, always goes a long way.
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Bored Daddy
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