I’m still your son, Mum: the letter I couldn’t help but write
Mum, I imagine you sometimes sit alone in the kitchen, sifting through old cards filled with wishes and joy over my birth. Faces full of smiles, many of whom are long gone from our lives, stare back at you. You keep my baby blankets, a tiny tooth, and a lock of blonde hair, as though hoping to turn back the clock to when I was just a little boy. No album can reverse time, but you cherish these things as the most precious because I’m your son.
I’ve grown up. I’m an adult, over thirty, with a wife, a job, a flat, and a list of lifelong duties. But you know what, Mum? I’m still yours. That same boy who came home with scraped knees, failing grades in maths, teary eyes, and sadness inside. You never asked why or how, you just hugged me. I knew then: no matter what punishment awaited tomorrow, today, I was simply loved. Without conditions.
I want you to know — I’m still that same boy. I just wear a tie now, pay bills, and too rarely pick up the phone. Not because I forgot, but because I’m embarrassed sometimes to feel tired, weak, or imperfect. Yet, when things get really tough, I mentally return home, where the smell of baking surrounds and your voice says: “The important thing is you’re home, we’ll figure out the rest.”
Remember in the sixth grade how you found that grey checked coat from the cupboard? It was bought “to grow into,” and you were thrilled it finally fitted me. I threw a tantrum because I thought I looked ridiculous. Now I have a similar coat—only it’s from a designer label, chosen by a stylist, probably costing more than all our furniture back then. And yet, I’m still the same boy. Yours.
I often recall our childhood, Mum. It’s more than just memories. It’s my foundation. It’s what made me who I am today. And you’re my only companion in those memories. Only you know how I really was. Whispering fevered dreams, scared of the dark, hiding under the table when our dog passed away. You’re the only one who lived all of it with me. That’s why I remain your son.
Sometimes I’m so worn out, Mum… Everything around demands me to be the best. Work harder, earn more, keep up with everything. A slight slip and you lose clients, respect, even yourself. And at home… at home, I need to be perfect too. A husband, a dad, a pillar of strength. Yet there’s just one place in the world where I can simply be a tired person. Your home.
You don’t scold or ask, “Why can’t you handle it?” You simply make tea, place a hand on my shoulder, and whisper, “Rest…” It’s the sole place where I don’t have to put on a brave face. Where I can just be. As I am. Vulnerable. And that means I’m still your son.
In this world, so little is certain, Mum. Everything is shaky, everything can crumble. Business partners deceive, friends move away, spouses may grow weary, children will grow up. But you—you’re like a rock. The granite foundation my life is built upon. You’re the only one whose love I never doubted. Even when I was angry, even when I slammed doors, even during silent weeks.
Your love isn’t a loyalty card, not a promise, not a condition. It’s like a light in the window. It just is. It’s stood the test of time and my challenging character. It’s 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 at first, had your doubts, asked, “What did you see in each other?” But I’ll tell you — she’s like you. She keeps the first drawings of our kids, jots down their funny phrases in a notebook, envelops us in her kindness. She waits for our kids just as you waited for me. Battered, with poor grades, in tears — but loved. With all her heart.
Looking at her, I fear the future less. Recalling you, I fear for myself less. Because I grew up in love, and now I’m passing this love on. That’s the real meaning behind it all.
Mum, thank you. For everything. For saving every sock, for each sleepless night, for every “we’ll get through it.” Despite everything… I’m still your son. And I always will be.
