The Last Cup of Tea

 

                         The Last Cup of Tea

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The kettle whistled softly, steam rising in tendrils that curled in the cold kitchen air. Eleanor moved slowly, her fingers stiff from age, reaching for her favorite chipped mug—the one with faded roses painted along the rim. It had been her husband’s favorite too.

She set it on the counter gently, as if noise might shatter the memory. One sugar cube, a splash of milk. Just the way Thomas used to make it for her. Her hands trembled slightly as she poured the water, the scent of black tea blooming into the room like a ghost.

The chair across the table sat empty, but she set a second cup there anyway. It had been seven years since Thomas passed, but she still made him tea every morning. Some days she’d talk to him, tell him about the weather, the neighbors, the aches in her knees. Other days, like today, the silence felt too heavy for words.

Outside, rain tapped gently against the windows, as if trying to be polite. Autumn leaves clung desperately to bare branches, refusing to let go. Eleanor understood that feeling. Letting go had never come easily to her.

Her children had moved away long ago—busy lives, busy families, phone calls that became less frequent. At first, they came for holidays. Then only Christmas. Then not even that. She told herself they were doing their best. That’s what mothers do: make excuses for everyone else’s absence.

Her eyes wandered to the old radio on the counter. Thomas used to dance with her in the kitchen when their favorite songs came on. She turned the dial. Static. More static. Then, faintly, a familiar tune filtered through—a love song from the 60s. Her breath caught in her throat.

For a moment, Eleanor closed her eyes and remembered the warmth of his hands on her waist, the way he hummed into her hair. The memory was so vivid it hurt.

A knock at the door startled her. Slowly, she made her way to the front hallway, each step echoing in the quiet house. She opened it to find a young man in a postal uniform holding a small package.

“Special delivery for Eleanor Reid,” he said, smiling politely.

She blinked. “That’s me.”

He handed her the parcel. “From overseas, I believe.”

She took it carefully, her hands tracing the unfamiliar handwriting. Inside was a small photo album. On the first page was a letter from her granddaughter in New Zealand—someone she hadn’t seen in nearly a decade.

“Dear Nana, I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately…”

Tears welled in her eyes as she sat down, holding the album close. Page after page, faces she hadn’t seen in years smiled back at her.

The tea had gone cold, but Eleanor didn’t notice.

For the first time in months, she didn’t feel entirely alone.

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