I’m Still Your Son, Mum: A Letter I Couldn’t Avoid Writing
Mum, you probably sit alone in the kitchen sometimes, sorting through old cards celebrating my birth. Cards where people are smiling, many of whom have long left our lives. You keep my baby blankets, a piece of my first tooth, a lock of my blonde hair, almost as if you want to bring back the time when I was so small. But no photo album can turn back the clock. Yet you continue to cherish these as your most precious possessions, because I am your son.
I’ve grown up. I’m an adult now, in my thirties, with a wife, a job, a flat, and a long list of responsibilities. But you know what, Mum? I’m still yours. The same boy who came home with scraped knees, failing grades in maths, teary eyes, and an ache inside. You never asked why or how—it was just a hug. And I knew: I might be punished tomorrow, but today I was simply loved. Without any conditions.
I want you to know—I’m still that boy. Just now, I wear a tie, pay bills, and call way too infrequently. Not because I forget, but because it feels embarrassing sometimes to be tired, to be vulnerable, to be imperfect. Still, when things get really tough, I mentally return to our home, where the smell of baking lingers and your voice reassuringly says, “The main thing is you’re home, we’ll figure out the rest.”
Do you remember when I was in Year 6, you pulled out that grey coat with brown checks from the wardrobe? It was bought “to grow into,” and you were glad it finally fit. I caused a scene because I thought it looked silly. Now, I own a similar coat—only it’s designer, picked out by a stylist, and costs as much as all our furniture did back then. Yet in it, I’m still that boy. Yours.
I often think back to my childhood, Mum. Because it’s more than just memories. It’s my foundation. It’s what makes me who I am. And you’re my only companion in those memories. Only you know what I was like. How I raved at night, feared the dark, hid under the table when our dog passed away. You’re the only one who lived all of it with me. And that’s why I’m still your son.
Sometimes I feel so exhausted, Mum… Everything around me demands I be the best. Work harder, earn more, keep up with it all. If you let anything slip, you lose clients, lose respect, lose yourself. And at home… home is where I also must be perfect. A husband, a father, a rock. But there’s only one place in the world where I can just be an exhausted human being. Your home.
You don’t reproach me, don’t ask, “Why can’t you handle this?” You just make tea, put a hand on my shoulder, and whisper, “Rest…” It’s the only place where I don’t have to keep up appearances. Where I can simply be. Just as I am. Vulnerable. And that means I’m still your son.
There’s so little assurance in this world, Mum. Everything is uncertain and can fall apart. Business partners can deceive, friends can leave, a spouse might get tired, children will grow up. But you—you’re like a rock. Like the granite foundation my life is built upon. You’re the one person whose love I never doubted. Even when I was angry, even when I slammed doors, even when I went silent for weeks.
Your love isn’t a loyalty card or a promise with conditions. It’s like a light in the window. It simply is. It’s stood the test of time and my challenging nature. It has endured everything. And it’s the most reliable support I’ve ever had.
Mum, I love a woman. She’s my wife. You didn’t understand her right away, you doubted, you asked, “What do you see in each other?” But I’ll tell you—she’s like you. She keeps our children’s first drawings, collects their funny phrases in a notebook, warms us with her kindness. She waits for our children to come home, battered, with poor grades, in tears—but hers. With love.
When I look at her, I worry less about the future. When I remember you, I worry less about myself. Because I know: I grew up in love, and now I’m passing that love on. And that’s the whole point.
Mum, thank you. For everything. For every sock you saved, every sleepless night, every “it’s okay, we’ll handle it.” For despite everything… I’m still your son. And I always will be.
