The Thanksgiving Visitor
I’m 78 years old, and for the last four Thanksgivings, I’ve spent the holiday alone — just me and the memories of the family I lost. But last year, something changed. Something that started as a lonely visit to the cemetery ended with a knock of fate I never saw coming.
My name is Iris. I still live in the little house my husband, Joe, built for us back in the 1970s. It’s old now, like me, but full of life’s ghosts. The floorboards still creak in all the same spots Joe used to complain about.
The kitchen sink still drips unless you twist the faucet a certain way. Every sound, every chipped corner, holds a memory. Some days, those memories keep me going. Other days, they hurt like open wounds.
Joe’s been gone twelve years now. My cousins are spread across the country — busy with their children, their grandchildren, their new lives. I don’t blame them. Life keeps moving for everyone else. But for me, time seemed to stop four years ago.
That was the year I lost everything.
My son, his wife, and their two little children were driving here for Thanksgiving. I had the table set with my best china, candles lit, and the turkey roasting in the oven. I remember standing by the window, waiting for their headlights to glow at the end of the driveway. Instead, I got a knock on the door — two police officers in the cold rain.
They said there’d been a car accident on the highway. A truck driver had fallen asleep at the wheel. They told me it was quick — that none of them suffered. I suppose they meant that to comfort me. But it didn’t. Nothing could.
Since that night, the holidays have felt hollow. I still set the table, still make the same recipes, even though no one’s left to eat them. I guess habits are hard to kill — especially the ones built around love.
Thanksgiving was their favorite holiday. So, I keep celebrating it, even if it breaks me a little more each year.
Last Thanksgiving started the same way as the last few — quietly. I made a small turkey breast because cooking a whole bird for one person just felt cruel. I mashed instant potatoes, opened a can of cranberry sauce that wobbled and kept its shape like jelly, and sat down alone. The silence in the kitchen pressed against me like a weight. Every tick of the clock echoed in the empty house.
After dinner, I cleaned up and put on my coat. Visiting the cemetery had become my ritual. It might sound morbid, but for me, it was the only way to feel close to them — to talk to them.
The streets were quiet as I drove. Families were inside, laughing, probably starting dessert or playing games. My car’s heater hummed while the bundle of chrysanthemums on the seat beside me filled the air with their faint, earthy scent.
When I arrived, the cemetery gates were open, and frost shimmered on the grass. My breath came out in pale clouds as I made my way to the plot beneath the old oak tree. That’s when I saw something strange.
At first, I thought it was a shadow — maybe a fallen branch. But as I stepped closer, I realized it was a person. A young man, maybe nineteen or twenty, lying curled on the cold ground beside a grave. No hat, no gloves. His thin jacket looked like it could barely hold out a breeze.
I rushed toward him, my heart hammering.
“Are you all right?” I asked, kneeling down beside him. My fingers brushed his shoulder. It was ice-cold.
His eyes fluttered open. They were dark and glassy, filled with confusion. “I’m fine,” he croaked. “Just… nowhere else to go tonight.”
“Nowhere else to go?” I repeated softly. “Sweetheart, nobody should spend Thanksgiving lying in a cemetery. Come with me. You can warm up at my house.”
He blinked, dazed, as if he wasn’t sure I was real. Then he gave a small nod. I helped him to his feet — he was trembling so hard I thought he might collapse.
Before leaving, I placed my chrysanthemums on my family’s headstone. My hand lingered on the cold marble, tracing their names. A single tear fell before I turned back to the stranger.
The drive home was silent for a while, the car heater blasting. Then he spoke. “I’m Michael,” he said quietly.
“I’m Iris,” I replied. “And you’re safe now.”
When we reached my house, I led him inside. “There’s a bathroom down the hall,” I said. “You can wash up. I’ll get you something warm to wear.”
I went into the spare room — my son’s old room — and opened the closet. I’d never had the heart to give away his clothes. I chose a thick wool sweater and handed it to Michael when he came out, his face pale but clean.
He slipped the sweater on, the sleeves a little too long, and gave a shy smile. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”
“Sit,” I said, motioning to the kitchen table. “I’ll make you tea.”
While the kettle boiled, I made him a plate of leftover turkey and potatoes. He ate slowly, like every bite was both a relief and a reminder of how long it had been since his last real meal.
When he was done, he just sat there, holding the mug of tea in his hands like it was keeping him alive.
“How did you end up there, Michael?” I asked gently.
He stared at the table for a while. The only sound in the room was the old wall clock ticking. Then, he began to speak — softly, like each word hurt.
“My mom died three years ago,” he said. “I was sixteen. After that, they put me in foster care. My family didn’t want me.”
I stayed quiet.
“The people who took me in… they only cared about the money,” he went on. “They were cruel. I tried to run away a few times, but they always dragged me back. When I turned eighteen, I thought I’d finally be free. My mom left me a little money — not much, but enough to start over. Maybe go to community college. I wanted to study robotics engineering.”
“That’s a wonderful dream,” I said.
He gave a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well, my foster parents and my relatives took it all. Said there were debts and legal fees. When they were done, I had nothing.”
My chest ached. “Oh, Michael…”
“So, I’ve been on the streets ever since,” he said. “Sometimes shelters, sometimes nowhere. Tonight, I just wanted to be near my mom’s grave. I guess I fell asleep there.”
He looked up at me — and I saw it. The kind of exhaustion that goes deeper than bone.
“Thank you for taking me in,” he whispered. “You didn’t have to.”
I reached across the table and touched his hand. “I lost my whole family too,” I said softly. “My son, his wife, and their two kids. They were on their way here for Thanksgiving four years ago.”
His eyes widened. “I’m so sorry.”
“Maybe we were meant to find each other tonight,” I said. “Two lost souls who needed a bit of warmth.”
He didn’t reply, just nodded slowly, his eyes glistening.
“You can stay here tonight,” I said. “The spare room’s ready.”
“You’re sure?” he asked.
“I’m sure.”
That night, I went to bed feeling something strange — not happiness, but a flicker of peace. The house didn’t feel so empty anymore.
Before lying down, I opened my bedroom window a little to let in some fresh air. The cold breeze felt crisp against my face. I pulled the blanket up to my chin and drifted off, thinking about how fate can turn even the loneliest night into something meaningful.
But around midnight, I woke up suddenly.
At first, I thought I’d dreamed it — but then I heard it: footsteps. Slow. Careful. Coming down the hallway toward my room.
My pulse raced. A shadow moved under the door, then the handle turned.
The door opened.
Michael stood there, his face half-lit by the hallway light. His eyes looked strange — distant, unfocused. My body went cold.
“STOP!” I shouted. “What are you doing?”
He froze immediately, eyes wide. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you!”
“Then why are you in my room?” I demanded, clutching my blanket.
He pointed quickly. “Your window — it’s open. I heard it rattling when I got up to use the bathroom. I was worried you’d catch a cold, so I came to close it.”
My breath hitched. The open window. I had forgotten.
“Oh… I did leave it open,” I murmured, feeling embarrassed. “It sticks sometimes.”
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I should’ve waited until morning. I didn’t think.”
“It’s alright,” I said after a pause. “Thank you for caring.”
He gave a small nod and backed out of the room.
When the door closed, I sat there for a long time, listening to the silence. My heart was still racing, but now there was something else — gratitude. I wasn’t used to someone caring about me like that anymore.
The next morning, I found him kneeling by my window with a screwdriver in hand.
“Would it be alright if I fixed this?” he asked shyly. “The frame’s warped. That’s why it won’t shut properly.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to,” he said simply.
He worked carefully, tightening screws and smoothing the wood until the window slid shut perfectly.
When he was done, I smiled. “You’re a good young man, Michael. You shouldn’t be out there alone.”
He looked uncertain. “What do you mean?”
“I mean stay here,” I said. “This house has too many empty rooms. Maybe it’s time someone filled them again.”
His eyes softened. “Are you sure, Iris?”
I smiled. “Yes, dear. I’m sure.”
That day, something inside me shifted — like a light had been turned on in a room that had been dark for far too long.
A year later, Michael is still with me. He’s studying robotics engineering at the community college, chasing the dream he thought he’d lost. I help him with his homework — though most of it looks like another language to me. He fixes things around the house, cooks dinner with me, and fills every corner with laughter.
The silence is gone.
The empty chairs at my table don’t look so empty anymore.
I still miss my family — I always will. But now, instead of only grief, there’s gratitude too. Because life, in its strange and quiet way, gave me another chance at love and family.
So, if you’re reading this and you’re lost in your own kind of loneliness, please remember — you’re not alone. Sometimes, when you least expect it, someone will walk into your life and remind you what warmth feels like again.
Even on the coldest night, even in the quietest house — keep your heart open.
You never know who might walk through your door.