A man of fifty: returning to the father’s house where no one waits…
I never imagined I’d be the kind of man—fifty years old, an engineer through and through, quiet, withdrawn, even sullen, as my wife once called me—to sit at a keyboard not for work, but to pour out words heavy with grief and longing.
Sixteen years ago, I left for another country seeking a better life. Found work quickly, settled in, brought over my wife and children. Soon after, my father passed. Mother stayed behind, alone in our old house nestled in the rolling hills of the Yorkshire countryside.
She never complained. Never hurled accusations, never hinted she needed help—though I was her only son. We spoke often, and every time she assured me she was fine, wanted for nothing. Only one quiet, careful question betrayed her true feelings: *”When will you come home?”* In that simple “when” lay all her loneliness, the ache she tried so hard to hide from me.
I cared for her. Thought of her constantly, never forgot her for a moment. But my sin is great, and it weighs on my soul like a stone: I broke my promises.
Every year, I returned to England in August—when my firm closed for holiday. That time was sacred, our ritual. We visited old friends and distant cousins, retraced the places where she had once been happy with my father in her youth. As the years took their toll, I drove her to doctors, spa towns, made sure she was cared for. We went to cinemas, strolled cobbled lanes, invited neighbours to our little house. She spoiled me with apple crumble, shepherd’s pie—tastes of childhood I’ll carry forever.
At parting, she always walked me to the garden gate but never to the station or airport. I knew why—she didn’t want me to see her cry. And I, fool that I was, swore every time that I’d return soon, that I’d visit at Christmas, or Easter at least, not drag it out till August again. I never kept those promises, and now the guilt eats at me like rust.
I did return last December. Not to embrace her, to breathe in the scent of her baking, to hear her call me to tea with honey and warm biscuits. I came to bury her.
The only comfort in this cold nightmare is that she went quietly, in her sleep—no suffering, no long illness, like a saint. But it doesn’t lift the weight. Doesn’t silence the guilt, doesn’t dull the hollow ache of being alone now, orphaned in this world.
And here I am again, in August, as always. My footsteps echo as I approach the old house. The key trembles in my hand, the lock clicks, the door groans open onto emptiness. No shuffle of slippers in the hall, no scent of roast parsnips or blackberry jam lingering in the air. The silence presses in, and the ceiling seems ready to collapse, crushing every memory beneath it.
Days passed before I dared touch her things. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to move anything—not the neat pile of newspapers, not her knitted shawl draped over the armchair, not the faded photograph on the dresser. Everything stayed as she left it, as if she might walk in any moment and ask why I’d taken so long.
I want to scream at sons who live far from their parents: *Go back to them, no matter how hard it is! Keep your word, even when life drowns you in work and worry. Because one day, you’ll have the time, the money, the strength—and the one you saved it all for will be gone.* And there is nothing worse than standing before the locked door of your father’s house, knowing that behind it lies only cold and silence.
Believe me, this isn’t just pain. It’s a wound that doesn’t heal. It’s footsteps echoing in an empty hall, the scent of a dying hearth, the knowledge that you’ve arrived too late—forever.
