The Washing Machine Repair Guy Gave Me A Note—But It Wasn’t About Me At All

It all started with a simple, everyday problem: the washing machine was leaking. I quickly called a professional repairman to take a look. He arrived, worked his magic, and fixed the leak in less than an hour. I paid him for the service, and he was on his way out the door. That’s when things took an unexpected turn.

As the young man was leaving, I noticed his cheeks turned pink, and he nervously reached out to hand me a small piece of paper. I took the note, unfolded it, and read the strange message: “Please call me. It’s about someone you know.”

My first instinct was to think: weird. I almost threw the paper straight into the trash. But I paused because of how he looked when he gave it to me—his eyes were facing the floor, and his hand was shaking slightly. His name was Ruben, and he seemed to be around 25 years old. He was quiet and polite. He certainly didn’t seem like the type of person who would hand out odd messages to a middle-aged woman whose hair was starting to turn gray and who had a laundry basket full of unmatched socks.

The Call That Changed Everything

The next day, my curiosity got the best of me, and I decided to call the number. He answered on the second ring.

“Hi, this is… uh, the washing machine lady,” I said, feeling a little awkward.

He cleared his throat. “Thank you for calling. I didn’t know how else to… I mean, this is awkward, but… do you know someone named Felix Deren?”

Hearing that name was a huge shock, like a sudden slap in the face. I had to sit down hard on the couch.

Felix Deren was my ex-husband.

We had not spoken to each other in more than seven years. Not since our divorce ended on a very difficult note. He had moved far away, and no one knew exactly where he had gone. Since we never had children or shared property, the silence between us simply grew over time. My friends always told me I was lucky to be rid of him, but I remembered a time when I truly believed he was the most wonderful person in the world.

“Yes, I know him,” I replied slowly. “Why?”

Ruben hesitated for a moment, and then said, “He’s my father.”

I simply blinked, completely stunned.

“I don’t mean to scare you or anything,” he quickly added. “I just found out a few months ago. My mom told me after he died.”

That one word—died—felt incredibly heavy, like a brick falling into my lap. I had so many questions running through my mind that I didn’t even know which one to ask first.

“He… he passed away?” I finally asked.

“Yeah. In February.”

It was already June.

A Story Unfolds: Painting and Forgiveness

It turned out that Felix had moved down to San Luis Obispo, where he started painting and lived a calm, quiet life. Ruben’s mother—Elira—had a short relationship with him in the early 2000s. She never told Felix she was pregnant and raised Ruben on her own.

“He tried to reach out to her a few times, but I guess she was scared. Or stubborn. She only told me the truth after the funeral. Said he left a box for me. In it… was a letter. And pictures. And your name.”

I was completely amazed. I could not think of anything to say.

“Can we meet?” he asked gently. “There’s something he wanted me to give you.”

We met at a small, quiet coffee shop the very next afternoon. Ruben arrived wearing jeans and a work shirt, with a little grease still visible under his fingernails. He looked so much like Felix that it brought a strange ache to my heart—he had the same thick eyebrows and the same quiet, calm stare.

He handed me an old, well-used envelope that was yellowed at the corners. My name was written on it in Felix’s familiar, elegant handwriting.

My hands were shaking as I opened it.

The letter was four pages long.

The first page was an apology. He apologized for how our time together had ended, for the emotional distance he created, and for not fighting harder to keep me. He wrote that he felt “broken back then”—afraid of failing, and afraid of not being good enough.

The second page was filled with memories. These were small, personal details that only someone who truly loved you would remember. He mentioned the way I used to hum quietly when I was folding laundry. He recalled the time I cried during a commercial for pet food and immediately tried to pretend I just had allergies.

The third page was all about Ruben. Felix wrote that he had only found out the truth about having a son one year before he died. He had tried to call him, but Elira would not return his messages. He mentioned that he left things behind for Ruben—a small savings account, a list of books he hoped his son would read, and letters.

The last page was for me again. He asked for my forgiveness, although he admitted he didn’t expect it. He said that if Ruben ever found me, he hoped I would give him a chance. “He’s a good kid,” Felix wrote. “Better than I ever was. I hope you see a part of me in him—but mostly, I hope you see him for who he is.”

When I finally looked up, my eyes were filled with tears. Ruben didn’t speak. He simply sat there quietly, giving me the time and space I needed.

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