I feel so sorry for him! The old man is lonely, his life has been difficult, and I don’t know how to help him.
Years go by, and he remains alone.
Many years ago, when I was still a child, an elderly man moved to our village.
The neighbors said he used to live elsewhere, but after his wife’s passing, he decided to leave his homeland. Not many people were left in their village, there was no work, and his children had scattered, forgetting about him.
He arrived here alone, with a small bag of belongings, hunched over and weary, but with warmth in his eyes.
The people in our village, kind-hearted as they are, took him in. Especially Granny Mary and Grandpa John—they offered him a room in their house and shared their bread, saying:
“Stay, you won’t be lost.”
And so, Grandfather Stephen settled with us.
A strong man with a shattered past.
He was once a robust man, working in construction, building houses with his own hands. He had a family—a wife and two children.
But fate dealt a harsh hand.
First, his wife passed away after a severe illness that took her within months.
Then, one by one, the children left the village.
His son went abroad and seldom called. His daughter married in another city and long forgot about her father.
Grandpa Stephen was left alone.
He lived on his old-age pension, stoked his own fire, fetched his own water, and tended to his tiny garden.
But the years took their toll.
When he arrived in our village, he was already having trouble walking—perhaps it was his joints, or maybe age was catching up with him.
“It’s all right,” he would say. “The main thing is, my hands can still hold a spoon. Some people live and can’t even break bread for themselves.”
Loneliness beyond comprehension.
I often visited him.
We sat in his house, drinking tea. He would tell stories—about the war, his youth, construction sites, and his children’s early years.
But he seldom spoke of his children’s recent years.
I noticed how his expression grew heavy when their names came up.
“Don’t they come to visit?” I would ask carefully.
Grandpa Stephen would wave his hand dismissively:
“They’re busy, always wrapped up in their own lives… And who am I to them now? An old man with a bag of ailments?”
His voice carried no anger or resentment. Only exhaustion.
He had long grown accustomed to solitude.
Where is the justice?
A few more years passed.
Grandpa Stephen grew even weaker.
One day, when I visited him, he was sitting by the window, staring into emptiness.
“Do your legs hurt a lot?” I asked.
“Yes,” he sighed. “I won’t be able to walk much longer. But it’s all right, I’m not afraid.”
He paused, then added:
“I just… wish I could say goodbye to my children while there’s still time.”
And I felt something tighten in my chest.
He wasn’t asking for help or complaining. He just wanted his children to visit him one more time.
I tried to find them. I found his daughter through acquaintances and called her.
“Your father wants to see you,” I told her.
“Oh, I can’t. I have work, family… Maybe in the summer?”
Summer.
But Grandpa Stephen might not make it that long.
I called his son.
“I have so much going on… I could send some money, but visiting—it’s impossible.”
I silently hung up the phone.
And at that moment, I felt not just sorry, but truly hurt.
Old age, which no one wants to think about.
Time goes on, and the old man still sits by the window.
Every day, he waits for the door to open and for someone familiar to walk in.
But the door remains silent.
It frightens me to think how many elderly people, forgotten and unwanted, are sitting like this, waiting.
Waiting for a call. Waiting for a visit. Waiting for a bit of attention.
The children, to whom they once gave their lives, don’t even find the time for a simple visit.
I don’t know how to help him.
I can’t bring back his youth. I can’t bring back his children.
I can only be there for him.
But someday, this path awaits me and all of us.
Only one question will remain: who will be there for us?
