A lonely elderly woman named Isolde began receiving daily deliveries from an unknown source. She and her late husband had no children together, so the origin of these gifts was a mystery.
When Isolde Varn’s husband passed away seven years ago, she was heartbroken. Left to navigate the rest of her life alone, she had no one to care for her.
She and her husband, Torin, had no children to look after her. When asked why, Isolde would shrug and change the subject.
One day, while watching TV in her bedroom, the doorbell rang. Expecting no visitors, she went to check.
Opening the front door, she found a delivery man in his 40s, his face partially hidden by a mask.
“Hello. I’m not expecting any packages. May I know who sent these?” Isolde asked.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but these were sent anonymously. Our security checked them—they’re safe. They’re for you,” he said, placing several boxes on the table by the door.
“That’s odd… thank you, kind sir,” Isolde replied, closing the door.
Curious, she opened the boxes. The first contained small appliances: a toaster oven, a sandwich press, and a coffee maker.
“Who would send me these?” she murmured. The second box held elegant clothes and groceries.
Daily deliveries continued, always brought by the same man. Isolde decided to get to know him.
“What’s your name, dear?” she asked.
“I’m Soren Vale,” he smiled. “Ms. Varn, the sender asked us to give you this. I’ll wait while you respond,” he added, handing her an envelope.
Intrigued, Isolde opened it. The note read: Ms. Varn, please write what you need, and I’ll provide it.
“Goodness, who’s sending me all this? And now they want my requests!” she exclaimed.
“I’m sure the sender cares for you deeply, even if you don’t know them,” Soren said, smiling.
Isolde wrote down her needs, keeping them modest to avoid burdening the mysterious sender.
After that, she began preparing snacks for Soren. For a month, he delivered parcels with clothes, food, books, and trinkets. They’d eat together, and he’d help with chores she couldn’t manage.
But one day, Soren didn’t come. Worried, Isolde visited the local post office to find him.
“Hello, could you page Soren Vale? I brought him some cookies,” she asked the receptionist.
The young woman looked puzzled. “I’m sorry, ma’am. No one named Soren Vale works here.”
“But he’s been delivering my packages daily. That’s strange,” Isolde said, disappointed.
She walked home, her mind racing. Who’s this generous stranger? Did I go to the wrong post office? Was Soren pretending?
On her porch, she found a small box with a key and a note:
I learned the truth a month ago after hiring a private investigator to trace my roots. I know you carry guilt for what happened, but I don’t blame you. You had my best interests at heart. You and your husband couldn’t provide for me, so you gave me up for adoption. I was raised by a wealthy family who loved me, but something was missing—you, Mom. I want you in my life. I’ve bought a house and included a key for you to join me if you wish. Let me care for you. With love, your delivery man, Soren.
Isolde trembled as she read, tears welling. She’d always longed to see her son before she died, never imagining he’d find her. And that son was Soren! Guilt from her past flooded back.
It was true: she and Torin faced bankruptcy when she was pregnant. Unable to raise Soren, they placed him in an orphanage with an anonymous letter explaining why. Years later, Soren persuaded the orphanage to share his adoption papers, revealing Isolde’s name.
Desperate to see him, Isolde prepared to leave, but a knock came. Opening the door, she saw Soren.
“Hi, Mom,” he said softly.
Isolde sobbed. “My son,” she cried, pulling him into a hug. “I’m so sorry, dear. Please forgive me.”
“No apologies needed, Mom. I’m here to spend time with you. It’s not too late to be a family,” Soren said, easing out of the embrace.
That night, they packed her belongings. A truck waited outside to move her things to Soren’s house.
There, Isolde met Soren’s wife and children, who welcomed her warmly. From then on, she was never alone again.
