A lump in my throat: our children abroad, we see them only on holidays
How much I miss them
People around me often say, “You should be happy! Your son has built his life in America, he has a family, stability. Isn’t that happiness?”
Yes, I am happy. Of course, I am. How else could it be? After all, what more can a father wish for his child than to see them happy?
But then why can’t I sleep at night? Why do I find myself staring out of the window every evening, hoping to miraculously hear familiar footsteps at the door? Why does my heart ache when I see the neighbor’s grandchildren playing in the yard while mine are across the ocean?
I missed my grandson’s first steps. I didn’t hear his first words. Screens and monitors prevent me from holding him close, I can’t take him hand in hand for a walk in the autumn park, nor can I teach him to ride a bicycle. All I have are a few pixels on a screen and a voice that seems to grow more distant and foreign each week.
“We’re all in the same boat”
The other day, I went for a stroll in the park and sat down on an old wooden bench already surrounded by folks like me. Older people, who have endured so much, yet struggle with the cruelest challenge of all – loneliness.
We started talking. Everyone had something to share, as our stories were all the same.
“I have two daughters,” began a frail woman with silver hair. “The eldest has been living in Switzerland for fifteen years, the youngest moved to Spain seven years ago. They used to visit more, but now… it’s always work and worries. They promise to come in the summer, but something always gets in the way.”
Another lady, plump with a kind face, continued with a smile:
“My granddaughter’s already in the first grade; she knows German better than English. My son and his wife bought a house in Munich. They’ve been doing well there. It’s been ten years since they moved to Germany. I visit them in winter, and in summer they come to me… Well, kind of. They stop by the village for a couple of days – then back again.”
I listen, remaining silent, just swallowing the lump in my throat.
A third woman sighed, gazing into the distance:
“I haven’t seen my grandchildren in three years. They’re in Canada. They visit less and less. They say it’s expensive, too far… I can’t even fly anymore, my legs won’t carry me. I knit them sweaters, socks, scarves – knowing it’s cold there. They smile through the screen: ‘Thank you, Grandma, you’re a treasure.’ But my things just sit in the cupboard – worn by no one, warming no one.”
Life at a distance
Some get expensive medications from their children, others receive a hundred pounds each month for support. Some have sons who cannot get leave during the holidays, and they won’t make it home for Christmas, while some wait longingly for the daughter-in-law to bring the grandchildren for at least a couple of weeks.
“And I envy you,” said a thin woman around sixty unexpectedly. “At least your children are settled. My son has no job, and my daughter-in-law earns barely anything. They didn’t go anywhere, but live in such a way that at times I wish they had… Their hope rests on my canned goods. I prepare three hundred jars of compotes, pickles, and jams during the summer. What else can I do? They can’t get by without them.”
So I sit, listening, feeling my insides tighten. Why is it so? Why do our children’s lives mean being so far from us?
We celebrate their achievements, feel proud of them, but we can’t hold them close when it gets tough. We can’t give them fatherly advice over a cup of tea in the kitchen, we can’t just sit next to one another, silently, yet so understandingly.
And what then?
We grow old. Our children become strangers; their worlds unknown to us. They have no idea how we live. And we don’t know who they’ve become.
A day will come when there’ll be no more Skype calls, no more rare holiday visits. A little more time will pass – and they might come back, but not to me, merely for a farewell.
Oh, how I wish, just once more, to hug my son tightly, to look into my grandson’s eyes and say, “Remember, your granddad loves you.”
But time slips away. And who knows, will we make it in time…
