Returning to the family home with no one waiting for you…
I never imagined that I, a man nearing 50, a technician to my core, quite reserved and even clueless according to my wife, would sit in front of a computer to write a letter instead of working.
Sixteen years ago, I went abroad for work, quickly settling in and bringing my family along.
Soon after, my father passed away, leaving my mother alone.
She never complained, never reproached me, never hinted that there was no one to look after her—I was her only child. We often kept in touch, and she would assure me that she was well and everything was fine.
Her question, “Will you visit soon?” hinted at how sad and lonely she felt.
Hand on heart, I can say I cared for her, thought about her, never abandoned her, never forgot her even for a moment. My biggest failing was not keeping my promises.
Every year, I visited England in August when the whole company was on vacation, and that was our time together.
The family home
Returning to the father’s house
We visited friends and relatives, went to places that reminded her of her youth with my father, and as the years passed, I took her to doctors and spas.
We went to the cinema together, walked around, and hosted guests. She indulged me with dishes and sweets I had loved since childhood.
She always saw me off at the entrance to the apartment block and never came to the airport…so I wouldn’t see her tears.
I kept promising her that I would try my best to return home for Christmas or Easter, at the latest, before the next August. That’s where I broke my promise, and I feel terrible about it.
Yes, I came home early last December, but not to hug my mum, not to smell her famous cinnamon cake, not to be greeted with mulled wine and walnuts, but to bid her farewell.
I was consumed by pain and regret.
The only solace was that my mother passed peacefully, in her sleep.
But it didn’t lessen the weight in my heart, it didn’t ease my conscience, it didn’t quell my feeling of being alone. And this time, I returned in August as usual.
But as I stood before the locked door, I felt the ache choke me. I didn’t hear footsteps in the hallway, didn’t smell the baked peppers or fried plums…
I thought the ceiling would collapse on my head.
It took several days before I could face my mother’s belongings, and I never dared disturb anything, even the newspapers remained untouched.
To sons living far from their parents: visit often, no matter how hard it is, and keep your promises.
Because there comes a day when we have both time and opportunity, but we lack the most important thing—the loved one to welcome us.
Trust me, there’s no greater trial than facing the locked door of your father’s house.
