The Unwritten Letter
We all procrastinate from time to time believing there will always be a tomorrow. In this story, Tom Andrews learns there are some things you shouldn't put off.
Tom Andrews sat at his desk, staring at the blank sheet of paper before him. The words wouldn’t come. It wasn’t the first time he’d tried to write this letter—he’d started and stopped more times than he could count. But each time, he found a reason to put it off.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was just after 9 p.m., and the house was quiet. His wife, Linda, was already asleep, and the soft hum of the dishwasher was the only sound that broke the silence. Tom sighed, running a hand through his graying hair.
It wasn’t that he didn’t know what to say. He knew exactly what needed to go into the letter. He had spent countless nights lying awake, thinking about how to say goodbye to his family and leave behind something that would comfort them when he was no longer around. But every time he sat down to write, something held him back.
“Maybe tomorrow,” he muttered to himself, folding the paper neatly and slipping it back into the drawer. He would start fresh tomorrow when his mind was clearer, when he wasn’t so tired.
But tomorrow never came.
Weeks passed, and life moved on as it always did. Tom went to work, played with his grandkids, and helped Linda around the house. Each day was filled with tasks and distractions, leaving little room for the thoughts that haunted him at night. The unwritten letter stayed in the drawer, always waiting, always a task for another day.
One sunny afternoon, Tom and Linda were out in the garden, pulling weeds and planting new flowers. It was one of those perfect days, the kind that made him forget about the nagging feeling in the back of his mind.
As they worked, Linda mentioned a conversation she’d had with their daughter, Sarah.
“Sarah said they’re thinking about taking a family trip this fall,” Linda said, wiping the sweat from her brow. “Maybe up to the mountains. It sounds like it’ll be fun.”
Tom smiled. “That sounds nice. We should join them.”
Linda paused, looking at him with a mix of concern and affection. “You know, Tom, we’re not getting any younger. We should make the most of these moments. Have you given any more thought to… you know, the things we’ve talked about?”
Tom knew exactly what she meant. Linda had been gently nudging him for months to get their affairs in order, to write his will, and to put his thoughts on paper for their kids and grandkids. She had already done her part, but Tom kept pushing it off.
“There’s always tomorrow,” he said with a reassuring smile. “I’ll get to it soon.”
Linda nodded, but her eyes reflected the worry she felt. They both knew that time wasn’t endless, but it was easier to pretend it was. The thought of putting pen to paper, of finalizing those plans, made everything feel too real, too final.
That evening, after dinner, Tom found himself back at his desk, the blank sheet of paper in front of him once again. He picked up the pen, staring at the empty page. But this time, something was different. The usual excuses—tiredness, distractions, the promise of tomorrow—seemed hollow.
He thought of Linda, of Sarah, of his grandkids who would one day want to know what he had been thinking, what he had hoped for them. He thought of the garden they had planted that afternoon, and how the flowers would bloom long after he was gone.
Tom took a deep breath and began to write. The words flowed more easily than he had expected. He wrote about his love for his family, the joy they had brought him, and the hopes he had for their future. He included practical matters too—where important documents were kept, his wishes for the end of his life, and how he wanted to be remembered.
By the time he finished, an hour had passed. Tom sat back, reading over the letter. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start. More importantly, it was done.
He folded the letter carefully and placed it in an envelope, writing “For My Family – With Love” on the front. Then, he tucked it away in the same drawer where the blank paper had once sat.
The next morning, Tom handed Linda the envelope. She looked at him with surprise, then smiled softly as she took it.
“I finally did it,” Tom said, a sense of relief washing over him. “No more putting it off.”
Linda hugged him tightly, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m proud of you,” she whispered.
Tom realized, as he held her, that the act of writing the letter hadn’t been just for his family—it had been for him too. The weight of procrastination had lifted, replaced by the peace of knowing he had taken care of what mattered most.
And from that day forward, he understood that while there may always be a tomorrow, it was what he did today that truly counted.
Image created by author using FLUX-schnell
Dr. Michael Williams is a professional storyteller, award-winning author, and certified End-of-Life Planning Facilitator and a Guided Autobiography Instructor. Learn more at www.michaelwilliamsstoryteller.com.
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This reminded me - I just talked to my cousin about what signs we would send each other from the other side. Thanks for sharing this