An old man was abandoned by his 7 children, but a stranger arrived and changed his life forever.

Seven children raised with sacrifice, with a promise that they would never abandon him—but it was all a lie. Don Justo, at 85 years old, spent his days gazing down the dusty road from his old house, waiting for the return of those who had sworn they’d come back. But what no one knew was that one day, a stranger would appear and reveal a secret kept in a letter that would change his life forever.

In the small town of Valle Verde—where the mountains embrace the sky and the fields stretch endlessly toward the horizon—lived Don Justo, an 85-year-old man whose face already showed the marks of time. His home, a modest cabin made of weathered wood, was surrounded by flowers that, despite the lack of care, still dared to bloom every spring.

It was a place where silence seemed to wrap around everything, broken only by the gentle whisper of the wind passing through the trees and the distant songs of birds. Every afternoon, without fail, Don Justo would sit in his old wooden chair—a chair that already knew his every movement, every corner of his body perfectly shaped to it. There, in that little corner of the world, his eyes would drift toward the horizon, as if searching for something that had yet to arrive—as if the act of waiting itself had a power over him, something that kept him anchored to that same spot day after day.

Villagers would approach him with pity and softly say there was no more hope:

“It’s been years since they last came, Don Justo. There’s no point in waiting anymore.”

Yet he would not respond. He simply continued looking down the road, holding in his hands a yellowed letter. It was a letter from his eldest son, Miguel, sent years ago—a sealed letter that Don Justo refused to open, as if afraid that the contents could somehow change everything. As if, deep down, he already knew what it said without needing to read it. He kept it with almost sacred care, as if it were the only bond left with a past slowly fading away.

Despite the villagers’ sorrowful words, telling him there was no hope, Don Justo never stopped waiting. A father’s love—a love that had endured through the years—held firm. He clung to the hope that one day, his children would return.

Each day, no matter what others thought, he continued sitting in his old wooden chair, eyes fixed on the horizon, hoping a familiar face would appear on the road. Don Justo knew his life had been a long wait—a wait dedicated to raising and caring for his seven children. He had been a strong pillar in their lives, a man they turned to for support and advice. But now… perhaps they had already forgotten him.

“What could they be doing now?” he often wondered, as his mind replayed the faces of each one of them—as if he could see them in front of him, though the memories had long faded with time. His heart filled with a mix of love and melancholy—a deep sadness that would sometimes overwhelm him without warning.

He missed them more than words could express.

Even if his soul felt empty, his house was not entirely silent. His five cats were the only ones who kept him company. Though they couldn’t speak, they seemed to understand the pain he carried in his heart. In their quiet presence, they offered him comfort—the kind of comfort only a loyal companion can give.

They would approach him silently, rubbing against his legs or curling up beside him—small reminders that he was not completely alone. Don Justo felt that somehow, his cats shared his sorrow, his waiting. And in their calm gaze, he found a kind of refuge.

As the sun began to set and the sky turned shades of orange and purple, Don Justo continued his routine. Each day was the same—but he never stopped watching the road. Each afternoon, he waited—though he knew that the chances were…

The chances of seeing any of his children return were slim.
Yet that hope, though fragile, kept him there in his wooden chair, with the yellowed letter in his hands, gazing at the horizon—as if he believed that someday, somehow, something would change.

The day began quietly in Valle Verde. The sun slowly rose over the mountains surrounding the village, painting the cobbled streets in golden hues. In the central plaza, the early morning shadows stretched long, marking the passage of time with a stillness that seemed to embrace the place. The shops began to open, and the village gradually stirred to life with the soft sounds of farmers setting up their stands and neighbors chatting as they crossed paths.

Carlos, a 20-year-old young man, walked across the plaza with his basket of fresh goods for the store. He was a kind-faced boy with a curious gaze, known around the village for his willingness to help others. However, there was something about Don Justo’s daily routine that hadn’t gone unnoticed by him.

Carlos had observed that every time he saw the old man at the market, the amount of food he bought had decreased. First, it was just some fruits… then bread and cheese… but lately, Don Justo only bought two pieces of bread and a small bottle of milk. The contrast with the rest of the townspeople’s purchases did not escape Carlos’s attention, and a growing sense of unease began to stir within him.

One day, while passing by the store, he decided to approach Don Justo, who was standing at the counter, holding his small bottle of milk. The old man seemed lost in thought, his gaze fixed on the ground—as if life had stopped happening around him.

Carlos approached with a gentle smile.

“Is everything okay, Don Justo?” he asked slowly, his voice filled with concern.

The old man slowly raised his eyes, as if awakened from a long sleep. For a moment, their eyes met, and for a few seconds, silence seemed to embrace the entire plaza. Then Don Justo nodded slowly.

“Yes, boy, everything is fine,” he replied.
“It’s just that I don’t need much anymore. My children don’t come anymore, and there isn’t much to buy.”

Upon hearing those words, Carlos noticed a deep sadness in Don Justo’s eyes when he mentioned his children. He was about to say something more when his gaze stopped on the yellowed letter the old man always carried with him.

He had heard that Don Justo took the letter everywhere—a sealed letter he never opened, claiming he already knew what it said.

Intrigued and eager to understand more, Carlos moved a little closer and sat in front of him in silence, waiting for the old man to notice him. The letter was still there, between Don Justo’s wrinkled hands—but he didn’t seem willing to talk about it.

“Don Justo,” Carlos said gently,
“Why do you always carry that letter with you? You’ve been keeping it for years.”

The old man, as if the weight of the question caught him off guard, looked up. For a few seconds, his eyes glistened with a mix of nostalgia and pain, but he quickly looked down again, staring at the letter with a kind of melancholy tenderness.

“It’s from my eldest son, Miguel,” Don Justo replied in a low voice, as if…

“Sharing a very personal secret,” the old man said.
“He sent it to me years ago before he left. In it, he promises that he’ll come back for me, that he’ll take me to live with him, that I won’t have to go through hardship anymore. He says everything will be alright…”
But his voice trembled slightly.
“I haven’t wanted to open it. I want it to be a surprise,” the old man added.

Carlos listened in silence as his thoughts began to swirl. Don Justo claimed he knew the contents of the letter, but it remained sealed—no sign of ever having been opened. Confused, he asked:

“But Don Justo,” Carlos said with a look of sincere concern,
“why not open it, if it’s something so important? Maybe by reading it, you’ll find something more—like the exact day he would return.”

Don Justo closed his eyes for a moment, as if Carlos’s words had transported him to a distant place. Then, with a sigh, he replied:

“Yes, boy, maybe you’re right. I will open it… but today is not the day.”

Carlos, though unsure of how to help, felt he had to do something. The sadness in Don Justo couldn’t be ignored. After a long silence, Carlos spoke again in a soft tone:

“Don Justo, maybe I can’t fully understand what you’re feeling, but I think sometimes, facing the truth—even if it hurts—is what gives us strength. You don’t have to do it alone. If one day you decide to read the letter, I’ll be here to accompany you. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.”

Don Justo looked at him in silence, as if Carlos’s words had touched something deep inside him. He didn’t respond right away, but his face softened slightly—as if, for a brief moment, he saw a light at the end of his long tunnel of waiting. Maybe, just maybe, loneliness wasn’t something he would have to carry forever.

Seeing that slight change in the old man’s face, Carlos stood up slowly, took some basic groceries from his basket—eggs, rice, sugar—and handed them to him.

“Here, Don Justo. It’s not much, but tomorrow I’ll bring more,” he said with a kind smile.

Don Justo looked at him silently and gave a small nod in thanks.

The next day, Carlos woke up earlier than usual. He had spent the whole night thinking about Don Justo and everything he had heard. Determined to bring more supplies to the old man’s home, he took some money from his savings and headed to the village store.

However, before buying anything, he felt the need to understand more about Don Justo’s past—something that would give him a clearer view of the life of this man who seemed to have dedicated his existence to waiting.

Carlos thought of Don Julián, the village baker, who was almost the same age as Don Justo. If anyone could tell him more about his life, it was him. So, with a mix of curiosity and respect, he headed to the bakery.

The smell of freshly baked bread welcomed him as he entered. Don Julián, a gray-haired man whose face bore the marks of many years, was at his workbench, hands in the dough, as he had done all his life.

When Carlos approached and asked about Don Justo, the baker looked at him with affection in his eyes and sat beside him.

“Ah, Don Justo…” began Don Julián, stopping his kneading for a moment and gazing into the distance as if his memories transported him to another time.
“Years ago, when his wife was still alive, his life was very different. He had seven children—all young—and the house was filled with laughter and noise. Don Justo’s life was happy back then, full of love for his family. But as with everything… time passed, and everything changed.”

Carlos listened in silence, fascinated and at the same time saddened, as Don Julián continued:

“Don Justo’s wife died many years ago. That was when he took on everything by himself…”

Unlike other fathers who leave or run away from responsibility, he didn’t.
Don Justo took care of all his children. He worked tirelessly to give them the best, and they never lacked anything.
He wasn’t just their father; he was also their mother. He did everything, Carlos.

The baker sighed, his eyes clouding for a moment at the memory.

But with the passing of the years, life led his children down different paths.
Miguel, the eldest, was the first to leave.
He promised he would return, that he wouldn’t leave his father alone—but he never came back.

The others gradually left too—some to study, others to work outside the village.
At first, they would send letters saying everything was fine, but eventually, they stopped writing.
And Don Justo, as always, kept waiting.

Carlos listened attentively, watching how the sadness in Don Julián’s face mirrored the very same sadness in Don Justo’s.

“Everyone in the village knows it,” Don Julián continued.
“We all know his children won’t return. But Don Justo keeps waiting—he still believes they will.”
And every time someone asks him about them, he says the same thing:
“They’ll be back soon. Miguel promised it in the letter.”

That letter, Carlos… that yellowed letter is all he has left.
He keeps it like a treasure, and in it, he still trusts—even though we all know it will never be opened, and he’ll never know the truth.
Still, he waits.

Don Julián’s words left Carlos in silence.
Now he understood more clearly Don Justo’s life—his sacrifices, his pain, and above all, his tireless hope.
Even if everything pointed to a different reality, Don Justo clung to that letter as if the mere act of not opening it allowed him to keep alive a hope that time had already faded.

Carlos said goodbye to Don Julián, a heavy feeling in his chest, but with a deeper understanding of Don Justo’s loneliness.

The afternoon in Valle Verde began to fade in reddish and golden hues, while the soft wind caressed the leaves of the trees and whispered through the dusty streets of the village.
It had been a long day for Carlos—full of mixed thoughts, but also an awakening he hadn’t expected.

As he walked back to Don Justo’s house, with the basket of supplies in his hands, he felt that there was something more he could do for him.
Not just bring food, but offer something else—support, company, something that could at least give Don Justo a bit of relief from the loneliness that had consumed him for so long.

Carlos walked slowly, his steps echoing on the stone path, his mind replaying everything he had learned about Don Justo.
The old man had dedicated his life to his family, to a profound love that kept him tied to hope—
to the hope of a return that never came.

How could someone bear so much?
The question wouldn’t leave his mind as he approached Don Justo’s house—the same modest, aging home that had witnessed so many years of sacrifice and waiting.

Upon reaching the little house’s door, Carlos paused for a moment and looked at the wooden structure that, though simple, carried the weight of so many memories.
The furniture inside looked old, worn, and in some corners, the passage of time seemed to have stopped.

More present—but what stood out the most to him was Don Justo’s face appearing at the door, smiling as always, though this time his gaze looked more tired, more empty.

“Don Justo,” said Carlos in a soft but determined voice,
“I brought more things today, but I want to do something more for you. I don’t just want to bring you food—I want to help you with your little house, do some repairs. Small things that might cost me a bit, but could make a difference.”

Don Justo looked at him for a moment, as if he didn’t fully understand what Carlos was offering.
For an instant, his gaze darkened, as though resisting the idea of accepting help.
But then, with a faint smile, he nodded.

“I don’t want you to trouble yourself, son,” he replied in a soft, barely audible voice.
“It’s not necessary. The house still stands—even if it’s old, it still gives me shelter.”

Carlos, however, didn’t give up.
He stepped closer and said firmly:
“Don Justo, this isn’t just about the house. It’s about your well-being. About not being alone. About not carrying all of this by yourself. What I’m offering is my company, my help—whatever you need. I can’t change the past, but I can change the present. I don’t want you to stay here waiting… all alone.”

The old man fell silent for a moment, his eyes shining with a mixture of sorrow and gratitude.
Finally, he nodded slowly.

“All right, son. If you help me, I’ll accept it. But don’t take it the wrong way—I’m a very proud man.”

Carlos smiled at those words. It was clear Don Justo had grown used to being alone, to not depending on anyone.
But something in his face, something in his eyes, showed that he also needed that small gesture of humanity.

From that day on, Carlos didn’t just bring food—he also started helping with small repairs around the house.
He fixed the door that no longer closed properly, painted parts of the walls where time had worn them away,
and most importantly, he gave Don Justo something he had long forgotten: company.

They spent the afternoons together.
Though Don Justo didn’t speak much, his quiet presence beside Carlos brought a silent companionship that, even if just a little, eased the loneliness that had accompanied him for so long.

Little by little, that loneliness began to fade.

The days passed slowly—until one day, something in the air changed.
A strange calm settled over the village, as if the whole place was holding its breath.

The high, bright sun lit up the adobe houses, and the long morning shadows stretched gently over the dusty roads.
Carlos walked toward Don Justo’s little house, as he did every day, with the basket of supplies in his hands.
But that morning, something felt different.

As he got closer, Carlos noticed that Don Justo’s face—always serene—was now pale.
Cold sweat covered his forehead, and his body moved with difficulty.

Don Justo slowly came to the door, barely able to stand.

“Don Justo,” Carlos asked with concern as he approached.

“I’m not feeling well, son,” Don Justo replied, his voice weak and broken.
“But before I… before I go, I want… I want to know something.”

Carlos moved even closer, seeing how the old man was struggling to hold onto the door.

“I want you to read me the letter,” said Don Justo, with a look that asked for more than just words.
“I’ve waited so long… but I can’t anymore. I need to know what it says.”

With a heavy heart, Carlos leaned toward the table where Don Justo kept the yellowed letter—
the same letter that had been his only companion for so many years.
He picked it up with trembling hands, feeling the weight of what he was about to do.
He sat next to the old man and opened the letter in silence.
The air seemed to freeze as Carlos began reading the first lines in his mind:

“Dear Father, I won’t be able to send you any more letters.
I’ve found a job in another country, and though I deeply regret not being able to come back, I have to move forward.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this before, but I don’t think I’ll be returning.
My brothers are also busy, and they’ve told me they don’t have time to visit you…”

Carlos felt a lump in his throat.

What he was reading wasn’t what Don Justo had believed for all those years.
The letter wasn’t a promise of return—it was a goodbye.
A farewell Don Justo had never fully understood.

As Carlos struggled to find a way to tell him the truth, his mind and heart were torn—
Should he tell him the truth and risk…

…that his health might worsen even more? Or should he lie—give him one last spark of hope, even if it was false?

With a sigh, Carlos made a decision.
He began to read aloud, adapting the words to what Don Justo wanted to hear.
His voice trembled slightly as he invented a story, but he went on, creating a lie that was kinder than the truth.

“Don Justo, the letter says that Miguel… Miguel is having some trouble at work, but he’ll be back soon.
He apologizes for not being able to come earlier, but he promises that he’ll be here very soon to see you.”

Don Justo, upon hearing those words, lit up.
His face, marked by age and illness, instantly softened.
He closed his eyes with a smile, as if hope had finally filled his heart.

“I knew it, son,” he murmured with a trembling but confident voice.
“I knew it. I always said my children would come back, one by one.
No one believed me, but I knew they would return.”

Then he slowly rose from his chair, the letter open in his hands.
He walked into the village, dragging his feet but with renewed determination.
One by one, he showed the letter to his neighbors, enthusiastically sharing his certainty that his son would visit him.

“It’s true,” he told them with a mix of excitement and confidence.
“My son is coming. That’s what the letter says.”

Carlos, watching from afar, couldn’t help but feel a mix of relief and sadness.
He had done what he thought was best at that moment—but he didn’t know if it was the right thing.
The lie, although it brought Don Justo peace, left Carlos with the weight of a hidden truth.

The days passed slowly, like leaves quietly falling to the ground in autumn.
Though Don Justo’s health continued to decline, he was happier each day.
Every morning, he came out of his house, letter in hand, showing it to anyone who wanted to see it,
repeating again and again the same words:
“Miguel will be here soon. He said so.”

No one in the village had the heart to contradict him.
So they all accepted that small lie that kept him at peace.

Carlos, however, couldn’t help but feel guilty.
Despite his doubts, there was something in the way Don Justo looked at him
that told him he had done the right thing.

And meanwhile, the community began to come together in a way it never had before.

Carlos, who had told the truth to the neighbors,
asked them not to tell Don Justo what had really happened with his son.
He knew the truth would be too harsh for him—and feared it would worsen his condition.

The neighbors, saddened by reality, agreed.
Don Julián the baker, Doña Elena the neighbor, and other members of the community
began to visit Don Justo’s house daily.
They brought food, helped with house repairs, and most importantly,
gave him what he needed most: company.

For the first time in years, Don Justo didn’t feel completely alone.
The community surrounded him—not with pity, but with genuine affection,
hoping he could feel that even though his children hadn’t returned,
his life still had value.

Carlos, seeing the change in the old man, realized something:
Sometimes, the love and solidarity of others are more powerful than any lie, no matter how small.
And even though the truth remained hidden, what mattered most was Don Justo’s well-being in that moment.

The cool and gentle morning breeze swept through the streets of Valle Verde, announcing a new day—
but it wouldn’t be like the others.

The sun, which always seemed to shine brightly over the village, peeked out timidly,
as if it, too, were respecting the painful moment that was approaching.

Don Justo’s little house, which had so often been a refuge of hope,
now stood quieter than ever.

The neighbors, who used to visit him daily, noticed the absence of his figure on the path—
and everyone knew that the time left was very short.

Don Justo’s health, as fragile as the walls around him, could no longer support him.

Carlos, who had been his constant companion,
felt the weight of every step as he approached Don Justo’s house.
He had been there for him for so long, helping him heal not just his body, but also his soul.
Now he had to be strong—not just for himself, but for the man who had come to see him as a son.

The village, though small, was full of life and solidarity.
But today, it seemed darker, as if the whole world was suspended in silent waiting.

When Carlos reached the door of the house, he found Don Justo lying in his bed…

His weak body was almost motionless.
His face, though still reflecting a trace of the serenity that had always defined him,
now showed the signs of deep exhaustion.
Don Justo’s eyes glowed with a light that Carlos immediately recognized—
it was the peace that only comes when one has lived fully,
when one has let go of everything they were holding on to.

Don Justo raised his hand with effort, catching Carlos’s attention,
who quickly approached him.
As he took his hand, the old man smiled—
but this smile was different from all the previous ones.
It was a smile of gratitude, acceptance, and farewell.

“Carlos,” Don Justo said with a weak but clear voice,
“Thank you for everything. You’ve cared for me like a son.
You can’t imagine what you’ve done for me.
I… I was never able to thank you the way I should have.”

Carlos felt a lump in his throat, and though the words tried to come out,
he couldn’t speak.
Instead of talking, he gently squeezed Don Justo’s hand,
showing him he was not alone in that moment.

“I love you, son,” Don Justo continued with a calm smile.
“And even though my children never returned,
I found what I needed most—
a son, a family, and the love of this town.”

With a final breath, Don Justo closed his eyes.
And although Carlos tried to hold back the tears,
he knew his dear friend’s life was coming to an end.

The farewell was inevitable,
but the pain was not as strong as the comfort Carlos felt
for having given Don Justo everything he could.

Don Justo’s calmness, though profound,
was also the reflection of the love he had received in his final days.

Carlos remained by his side, holding his hand
until Don Justo’s breathing stopped,
leaving a void in the air—
a void that only the community that had surrounded him could hope to fill.

In the end, Don Justo did not die alone.
He was embraced by the affection of all,
especially Carlos,
who never let his heart harden in the face of the old man’s loneliness.

---

The story of Don Justo is a moving tale of sacrifice, abandonment,
and the tireless search for hope.

Despite having given everything for his children,
he was forgotten by them.

However, thanks to a young man named Carlos,
and the solidarity of the community,
Don Justo’s life took an unexpected turn,
and he was able to live his final days in happiness.

This story reflects the power of community
and the positive impact a small act of kindness
can have on someone who has lost everything.

Though Don Justo never saw his children return,
he found in others what he had longed for his whole life:
love, care, and a sense of belonging
that stayed with him until the very end.