Curiosity? Instinct? I wasn’t sure. But I needed to know where this was going.
So, I set a trap. I left out more clean socks, and when Dylan snuck out of the house with them the next morning, I followed.
Heart pounding, I kept my distance to avoid being seen. He turned onto Oak Street—a part of the neighborhood I usually avoided because of the abandoned houses.
Except, apparently, not all of them were abandoned.
You know those moments in horror movies when you’re screaming at the screen, “Don’t go in there!”?
That’s exactly how I felt watching my son walk up to the most run-down house on the block and knock on the door.
And when the door opened and he walked inside?
My dad instincts kicked in full force.
“Oh, hell no,” I muttered under my breath.
I sprinted up the cracked walkway and shoved the door open, ready to take down whoever was inside.
Not my proudest moment of rational thinking, I admit. But what would you have done?
I froze in my tracks.
Instead of a dangerous stranger, there sat an elderly man in a wheelchair, wrapped in a worn blanket. Dylan stood in front of him, holding out a familiar-looking bag.
“I brought you some new socks,” my son said softly. “The blue ones have little anchors on them. I thought you might like those since you said you were in the Navy.”
The old man smiled. “Army, actually. But I do like anchors.”
I must’ve made some kind of noise because they both turned to look at me. Dylan’s eyes went wide.
“Dad! I can explain!”
The old man wheeled around to face me. “You must be Dennis. I’m Frank. Your boy here has been keeping my foot warm for the past month.”
He lifted the blanket to reveal that he only had one leg. Suddenly, the missing socks made sense.
“He’s been bringing me apples, too,” Frank chuckled. “And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. I watch the kids walk to school every day, but Dylan’s the first one who stops and says hello.”
“We all saw him in the window,” Dylan blurted. “Tommy and Melody thought you were a scary ghost, but I knew they were wrong. You’re just lonely and cold. And Mom always said new socks make people feel better, remember?”
My throat tightened.
Whenever one of us had a bad day, Sarah would come home with the silliest socks she could find. “Because life’s too short for boring socks,” she’d say.
Frank cleared his throat. “Your boy’s been visiting me every day since then. First company I’ve had in years. My own kids moved away. They send money sometimes, but they don’t visit much.”
“I know I should’ve asked first,” Dylan admitted, looking down at his shoes. “But I was scared you’d say no. I’m sorry I took your socks, Dad.”
I crossed the room in three strides and pulled my son into a tight hug.
“Don’t apologize,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. “Your mom would be so proud of you. And so am I.”
Frank smiled. “He’s a good kid. Reminds me of my Jamie when he was that age. Always thinking of others.”
The next day, Dylan and I went sock shopping. We bought half the fun sock section at Target—wild patterns, crazy colors, the works.
Because if you’re going to be a sock fairy, you might as well do it right.
Now, we visit Frank regularly. I help him with home repairs, and Dylan tells him stories about school. Sometimes we bring him dinner, and Frank tells us stories about kindness in unexpected places.
My sock drawer is still full of mismatched pairs, but I don’t mind anymore.
Every missing sock is a reminder that sometimes, the smallest hearts hold the biggest love. And my seven-year-old might just understand healing better than I ever did.