I’m still your son, Mum: a letter I couldn’t keep from writing.
Mum, I imagine you sometimes sit in the kitchen by yourself, sifting through old greeting cards celebrating my birth. Cards with smiling faces of people, many of whom are no longer in our lives. You hold on to my baby blankets, a piece of my first tooth, a lock of my blonde hair, almost as if you wish to bring back the time when I was just a little boy. But no photo album can turn back the years. Yet, you treasure those items as if they were the most precious things. Because I’m your son.
I’ve grown up. I’m an adult now. I’m in my thirties, with a wife, a job, a flat, and a list of responsibilities that feels endless. But you know what, Mum? I’m still yours. That same boy who came home with scraped knees, a failing maths grade, tearful eyes, and a hurt heart. Back then, you never asked why or how—you just held me close. And I knew perhaps tomorrow I’d be told off, but today, I was simply loved. Unconditionally.
I wish you knew that I’m still that boy. I just wear a tie now, pay my bills, and call you far too seldom. Not because I forget, but sometimes it’s shameful to feel so tired, so flawed, so imperfect. Still, in the toughest moments, I mentally return to our home, where the smell of baking fills the air and your voice still says, “The main thing is, you’re home; everything else can wait.”
Remember in Year Six when you pulled out that grey and brown plaid coat from the wardrobe? You bought it for me to grow into, and you were excited it finally fit. I threw a fit because I thought it looked silly. Now I have a similar coat, but it’s from a big-name brand, picked by a stylist, and costs as much as all our old furniture. Yet in it, I’m still that boy. Yours.
I frequently reminisce about my childhood, Mum. Because it’s more than just memories. It’s the foundation that shapes who I am. And you’re my only companion in those recollections. Only you know how I was. How I had fever dreams, was afraid of the dark, and hid under the table when our dog passed away. You’re the only one who went through it all with me. That’s why I’m still your son.
Sometimes I get so weary, Mum… Everything demands I be the best. Work harder, earn more, keep up with everything. Fall slightly behind, and I risk losing clients, respect, myself. And at home… I’m supposed to be perfect there too. A husband, a father, a pillar. Only one place in the world lets me simply be a tired person. Your home.
You don’t blame, you don’t ask, “Why can’t you handle it?” You simply make tea, place a hand on my shoulder, and whisper, “Rest…” This is the only place where I don’t have to put on a face. Where I can just be myself. Vulnerable. And that means I’m still your son.
In this world, there are so few certainties, Mum. Everything seems shaky, as if it could collapse any moment. Business partners might deceive you, friends might move away, my wife could grow weary, our children will grow up. But you are like a rock. Like the granite foundation upon which my life stands. You’re the only one whose love I’ve never doubted. Even when I was angry, even when I slammed the door, even when I was silent for weeks.
Your love isn’t a loyalty card, isn’t a promise, isn’t conditional. It’s like a light in the window. It just is. It’s stood the test of time and my tricky character. It has endured everything. And that’s the most reliable support I’ve ever had.
Mum, I love a woman. She’s my wife. You didn’t understand her at first, you had your doubts, you asked, “What do you see in each other?” But I’ll tell you—she’s like you. She saves our children’s early drawings, collects their funny sayings in a notebook, warms us with her kindness. She waits for our children as you waited for me. Scraped up, with poor grades, in tears—but hers. With love.
I look at her and feel reassured about the future. I remember you and feel reassured about myself. Because I grew up in love, and now I pass that love forward. And that is meaning in itself.
Mum, thank you. For everything. For every saved sock, for every sleepless night, for every “never mind, we’ll get through it.” For in spite of everything… I’m still your son. And I always will be.
