I’m still your son, Mum: a letter I couldn’t help but write
Mum, perhaps sometimes you sit alone in the kitchen, going through old cards that celebrate my birth. Faces beam on those cards, many of whom have long since faded from our lives. You keep my baby blankets, a piece of my first baby tooth, a lock of blonde hair, as if you long for the days when I was just a child. Yet, no photo album can turn back time. Still, you cling to these treasures because I am your son.
I’ve grown up. I’m an adult. I’m in my thirties with a wife, a job, a flat, and a list of responsibilities as long as my arm. But you know what, Mum? I’m still yours. The very same boy who came home with scraped knees, a failing grade in maths, teary eyes, and a heartache that seemed too much to bear. You never asked why—there were no questions. You just hugged me. I knew that tomorrow I might face consequences, but today I was simply loved. No strings attached.
I want you to know that I’m still that same boy. I just wear a tie now, pay the bills, and don’t call often enough. Not because I’ve forgotten—but because sometimes I’m ashamed of being tired, being weak, being imperfect. Yet, when things get particularly tough, I mentally return to our home, where the smell of baking fills the air, and your voice still echoes, “The main thing is you’re home; the rest we can handle.”
Do you remember when I was in Year 6, and you pulled out that grey coat with a brown check from the closet? It was bought “to grow into,” and you were thrilled it now fit me just right. I caused a fuss because I thought it made me look silly. Now I have a similar coat—only it’s designer, chosen by a stylist, and probably costs as much as all our furniture did back then. But underneath it, I’m still that same boy. Yours.
I often reminisce about our childhood, Mum. Not just because they are memories, but because they ground me. They shape who I am. And you are my sole companion on that journey. Only you know what I was like. How I talked gibberish in my sleep, was afraid of the dark, hid under the table when the dog was dying. You are the only one who lived through it all with me. That’s why, even now, I’m still your son.
Sometimes I get so weary, Mum… Everything demands that I be the best. Work harder, earn more, keep up with everything. Letting go even a little might mean losing clients, respect, or even myself. And at home… at home, I must be perfect, too. A husband, a father, an anchor. Yet, there’s only one place in the world where I can simply be a tired human being. Your home.
You don’t reproach me, you don’t ask, “Why can’t you cope?” You just brew tea, put a hand on my shoulder, and whisper, “Rest…”. It’s the one place where I don’t have to put on a brave face. Where I can just be myself. Vulnerable. And that means I’m still your son.
There are so few certainties in this world, Mum. Everything is so precarious, everything can crumble. Business partners may deceive, friends may leave, my wife might grow weary, children will grow up. But you are like a rock. Like the granite foundation upon which my life stands. You’re the only one in 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 or some sort of promise or condition. It’s like a light in the window. It just exists. It has withstood the test of time and my difficult character. It’s endured everything. And it’s the most reliable support I’ve ever had.
Mum, I love a woman. She is my wife. You didn’t immediately understand her, you had doubts, you asked, “What did you find 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, and envelops us in her kindness. She waits for our children just as you waited for me: with love, in whatever state they come home—bruised, with poor marks, or in tears.
I look at her and worry less about the future. I remember you and worry less about myself. Because I know, I was raised in love, and now I’m passing that love on. That’s what it’s all about.
Mum, thank you. For everything. For every sock you saved, for every sleepless night, for every “it’s not a big deal, we’ll get through this.” For in spite of everything… I’m still your son. And I always will be.
