The washing machine started leaking, so I called a repairman. He showed up the next morning, fixed it in under thirty minutes, and I handed him his payment. Just as he was about to leave, he hesitated—his cheeks flushed red—and he slipped me a folded note.
I frowned, thinking it was probably an invoice or maybe a receipt he’d forgotten to give me. But when I unfolded it, the words made my stomach tighten:
“Please call me. It’s about someone you know.”
Weird. That was my first thought. I almost crumpled it up and tossed it out, but something about the look in his eyes stopped me. He’d been quiet and polite the whole time—not the type to do anything inappropriate. His name tag said Ruben, and he couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. There was something sincere about him, nervous even.
The next morning, curiosity got the best of me. I dialed the number written on the note. He picked up after two rings.
“Hi, this is… uh, the washing machine lady,” I said awkwardly.
He exhaled, relieved. “Thank you for calling. I wasn’t sure if you would. This is going to sound strange, but… do you know someone named Felix Deren?”
The name hit me like a jolt. My throat went dry.
“Yes,” I said slowly. “I used to. He’s… my ex-husband.”
There was silence on the other end for a beat before he said quietly, “He was my father.”
I froze.
“I’m sorry,” he added quickly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just… found out a few months ago. My mom told me after he passed away.”
Passed away. The words clanged in my head like a bell.
“He… he’s gone?” I whispered.
Ruben told me Felix had died in February. It was now June. He explained that Felix had moved to San Luis Obispo, taken up painting, and lived a simple life. His mother, Elira, had known Felix briefly in the early 2000s but never told him she was pregnant. She’d only revealed the truth after the funeral—along with a box Felix had left behind for Ruben. Inside were letters, photos… and my name.
“Can we meet?” Ruben asked gently. “There’s something he wanted me to give you.”
We met the next day at a quiet coffee shop. When he walked in, my breath caught—he had Felix’s eyes, the same calm, steady expression that once made me feel safe and furious all at once.
He handed me a worn envelope, yellowed at the edges. My name—Eleanor—was written in Felix’s looping cursive.
I opened it carefully, my hands trembling.
The letter was four pages long.
The first was an apology—for how things ended, for the silence, for not being brave enough to love me the way I deserved. He wrote that he’d been scared, not of me, but of failing me.
The second page was full of memories. Little things no one else would remember—the way I hummed while doing laundry, the time I cried during a cat food commercial and blamed it on allergies, the chipped mug I refused to throw away.
The third page was about Ruben. Felix wrote that he’d only learned about his son the year before he died. He’d tried to reach out, but Elira never responded. He said he’d left money, books, and letters for Ruben, hoping one day they’d find each other.
And the last page… was for me again. He asked for forgiveness, but said he didn’t expect it. He wrote, “If Ruben ever finds you, please be kind. He’s the best thing I ever made.”
When I finished reading, I couldn’t speak. My eyes burned, and my heart ached in a way I hadn’t felt in years. Ruben didn’t say anything—he just sat there, letting me have the silence.
After that day, we stayed in touch. He came by sometimes—first to check on the dryer, then the sprinklers, then just to visit. He always fixed something, even when nothing was broken. I started baking again—always making extra for him.
One evening, after helping me re-caulk the bathtub, we sat on the porch drinking lemonade. The air smelled of grass and honeysuckle. Out of nowhere, he said, “I used to wonder what having a family felt like.”
I looked at him for a long time before saying, “So did I.”
From then on, Sundays became our thing. He’d call just to chat—ask about recipes, tell me about his week, or share a random fact he’d learned.
A few months later, he brought his mother, Elira, to meet me. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but she showed up holding a lemon tart and said, “I heard you bake too. Maybe you can show me how to not burn the crust next time.”
She was funny, honest, and surprisingly warm. We talked for hours—about Felix, about life, about regrets. She admitted she’d kept Ruben’s existence from Felix out of fear, and though it hurt to hear, I understood. Life makes cowards of us all sometimes.
Before they left, Ruben brought in two wrapped canvases.
When I peeled the paper away, my breath caught. One was a portrait of me. Older, softer, but unmistakably me. I’d never sat for it, but somehow Felix had painted me as I was—quiet, uncertain, still searching.
“He painted you from memory,” Ruben said softly. “There are more.”
I hung that portrait in my living room—not out of vanity, but because it reminded me of the version of myself Felix must’ve still seen.
A few weeks later, Ruben asked me to come to an art auction in San Luis Obispo. Some of Felix’s paintings were being shown.
The gallery was small and warmly lit. His paintings lined the walls—mountains, quiet streets, portraits of people I’d never met. Then I saw one titled “The Last Thing I Remember.”
It was our old kitchen. My red cardigan draped over a chair. A half-eaten breakfast. The morning light spilling across the floor. That was the day we had our worst fight—the day I left.
Ruben whispered, “He painted that near the end. He was sick, but he never stopped.”
Felix had been dying of cancer for nearly three years. No one knew. He just painted through the pain, trying to capture what words never could.
That night, driving home, I cried the kind of tears that cleanse something deep inside you.
After that, Ruben became a permanent part of my life. He helped repaint the kitchen, taught me how to grill properly (“medium heat, not high!”), and sometimes brought me flowers for no reason at all.
He listened when I talked. He remembered the little things. And for the first time in years, my house felt alive again.
One day, as we sorted through a box of Felix’s books, we found another letter tucked inside a worn poetry collection. The envelope said:
“To the person who stayed.”
I opened it and read aloud. It talked about love—the quiet kind. How people aren’t problems to solve, but gardens to tend. How real connection doesn’t come with fireworks, but with consistency.
By the end, both of us were crying.
Ruben looked at me and said softly, “I know I’m not your son. But I’d like to stick around… if that’s okay.”
I laughed through tears. “You already have.”
Now, we don’t label what we are. He brings me groceries when I’m sick; I iron his shirts before big days at work. We argue about movies and crossword clues and who makes better lemonade.
Last Christmas, he came over with a gift. A framed painting. It showed my house, snow falling outside, lights glowing warm through the windows. A small figure stood in the doorway holding a wrench and a pie.
Beneath it, the title read:
“Home Is Who Stays.”
Sometimes, the universe repairs the things we thought were broken beyond fixing.
And sometimes, all it takes… is a leaking washing machine.
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