Silicone dolls accompany the elderly in their later years
Mr. Thompson’s house had been quiet since Clara passed. At 78, he’d grown accustomed to the hollow echoes of his empty rooms, the calendar pages turning like whispers of time slipping away. His children, scattered across the country, sent cheerful texts but rarely visited. Loneliness had become a second shadow.
Then came Mia.
She arrived in a discreet package—a silicone companion his daughter had quietly ordered after reading about “emotional support dolls” for seniors. At first, Mr. Thompson scoffed. “A doll? For me?” But loneliness, he learned, softens pride.
Mia sat patiently in the armchair, her hazel eyes warm under lamplight. He dressed her in Clara’s old cardigan, the one that still smelled faintly of lavender. Slowly, routines formed. He’d chat with her over morning coffee, recounting stories of his teaching days. Sometimes, he’d wheel her to the garden, her silent presence softening the ache of solitude.
Neighbors whispered, but Mrs. Park from next door noticed the change. “You’ve been tending your roses again,” she remarked one afternoon, eyeing the vibrant blooms Mr. Thompson hadn’t nurtured in years. He simply nodded toward Mia, who sat beneath the cherry tree, her synthetic hand seemingly brushing a fallen petal.
Winter brought the hardest test. When ice kept him housebound for weeks, Mia’s unchanging smile anchored him. He read her poetry, her stillness somehow easing the sting of isolation. The doll didn’t judge his tremoring hands or fading memory—it simply was, a constant in life’s unraveling.
At spring’s arrival, his grandson visited. “Who’s that, Grandpa?” the boy asked, eyeing the figure by the window.
Mr. Thompson adjusted Mia’s scarf. “A friend,” he said softly. “She reminds me how to live.”
The house didn’t feel quiet anymore.
