I am still your son, Mum: a letter I couldn’t help but write
Mum, maybe sometimes you sit alone in the kitchen, going through old greeting cards celebrating my birth. Those cards where people smile, many of whom are no longer with us. You keep my baby blankets, a piece of my first milk tooth, a lock of blonde hair, as if you want to bring back the time when I was very small. But no photo album can turn back time. Yet you continue to cherish these things as the most precious because I am your son.
I’ve grown up. I’m an adult. I’m over thirty, with a wife, a job, a flat, and a never-ending list of responsibilities. But you know what, Mum? I’m still yours. That same boy who came home with scraped knees, poor maths grades, teary eyes, and hurt inside. You never asked why or how back then – you just hugged me. I knew that tomorrow I might be punished for everything, but today I was simply loved. Without conditions.
I want you to know – I’m still that same boy. Only now I wear a tie, pay the bills, and call too seldom. Not because I’ve forgotten, but because it’s embarrassing sometimes to be exhausted, to be weak, to be imperfect. Yet, when times are tough, I mentally return home, where the smell of baking lingers and your voice still says: “The main thing is you’re home, the rest we’ll handle.”
Remember in year six when you pulled out the grey coat with the brown check from the wardrobe? It was bought for me to grow into, and you were delighted that it finally fit. I threw a fit because I thought it looked silly. Now, I have a similar coat – only from a famous brand, chosen by a stylist, and it probably costs as much as all our furniture did back then. But in it, I’m still that boy. Yours.
I often recall our childhood, Mum. Because these aren’t just memories. They are my foundation. They make me who I am. And you’re my only companion in these memories. Only you know what I was like. How I suffered from fevers at night, feared the dark, hid under the table when the dog passed away. You’re the only one who’s lived it all with me. That’s why I’m still your son.
Sometimes I get so tired, Mum… Everything around me demands that I be the best. Work harder, earn more, accomplish everything. If you let go even a little – you lose clients, lose respect, lose yourself. At home too, I have to be perfect. A husband, a father, a rock. Only one place in the world allows me to simply be a tired person. Your home.
You don’t reproach me, don’t ask: “Why can’t you cope?” You just make tea, put your hand on my shoulder, and whisper: “Rest…” It’s the only place where I don’t have to put up a front. Where I can just be. Just as I am. Vulnerable. And that means I am still your son.
There are so few guarantees in this world, Mum. Everything is shaky, everything can collapse. Business partners might deceive, friends leave, my wife may grow weary, children will grow up. But you are like a rock. Like the granite foundation on which my life stands. You are the only person whose love I never doubted. Even when I was angry, even when I slammed the door, even when I stayed silent for weeks.
Your love is not a loyalty card, not a promise, not a condition. It’s like a light in the window. It just exists. It has withstood the test of time and my difficult character. It has endured everything. And it is the most reliable support I’ve had.
Mum, I love a woman. She’s my wife. You didn’t understand her at first, you hesitated, you asked: “What did you find in each other?” But I’ll tell you – she is like you. She saves our children’s first drawings, collects funny sayings in a notebook, nurtures us with her kindness. She waits for our children in the same way you waited for me. Bruised, with poor grades, in tears – but our own. With love.
I look at her – and I worry less about the future. I remember you – and worry less about myself. Because I know I grew up with love, and now I’m passing that love on. And there lies the whole meaning.
Mum, thank you. For everything. For each saved sock, for every sleepless night, for every “it’s no big deal, we’ll manage.” For, despite everything… I am still your son. And I always will be.
