A man of fifty: returning to the childhood home where no one waits for you…
I never imagined that I—a fifty-year-old man, an engineer through and through, quiet, reserved, even sullen, as my wife once said—would sit at a computer not for work, but to pour out my thoughts in a letter full of pain and longing.
Sixteen years ago, I left for another country in search of a better life. I quickly settled in, found work, and brought over my wife and children. Soon after, my father passed. Mother stayed alone in our old house, tucked away in the rolling hills of the Yorkshire countryside.
She never complained, never threw accusations my way, never hinted that she needed help—though I was her only son. We spoke often on the phone, and every time, she assured me she was fine, that she lacked for nothing. Only one quiet, careful question betrayed her true feelings: “When will you visit?” In that simple “when” lay all her loneliness, all the sorrow she tried so hard to hide from me.
In truth, I cared for her. I thought of her constantly, never abandoned her, not for a moment. But my sin is great, and it weighs on my soul like a stone: I broke the promises I made to her.
Every year, I returned to England in August—when my company shut down for the summer holidays. It was our time, sacred as a ritual. Mother and I would visit friends and distant relatives, wander through places where she’d been happy with Father in her distant youth. As the years took their toll, I took her to doctors, booked stays in seaside retreats, fussed over her health. We went to the cinema, strolled through old village lanes, hosted guests in our little cottage. She spoiled me with homemade apple crumble, hearty beef stew—the flavours of childhood I’ll never forget.
At the end of each visit, she always walked me to the garden gate, but never came to the train station or airport. I knew why—she didn’t want me to see her tears. And I, fool that I am, swore every time that I’d return soon, that I’d visit for Christmas or Easter, not just wait until August again. I broke those promises, and now guilt gnaws at me like rust.
Yes, I came back last December. But not to embrace her, to breathe in the scent of her famous crumble, to hear her call me to the table with tea and honey. I came to bury her.
The only comfort in this cold nightmare is that she went quietly, in her sleep, without suffering or long illness—like the good woman she was. But it doesn’t lift the weight, doesn’t silence my conscience, doesn’t erase the feeling that I’m alone in this world, lost and orphaned.
Now I’m here again, in August, as always. My footsteps echo hollowly as I approach the old house. The key trembles in my hand, the lock clicks, the door creaks open into emptiness. No sound of footsteps in the hall, no smell of roasted vegetables or blackberry jam lingering in the air. The silence presses against my ears, and it feels as though the roof might collapse, burying all my memories beneath it.
Days passed before I dared touch her things. But I couldn’t bring myself to move anything—not the neat stack of newspapers, not her knitted shawl draped over the armchair, not the old photograph on the dresser. Everything remains as it was, as if she might step in any moment and ask why I’m late.
I want to shout to the sons who live far from their parents: go back to them, no matter how hard it is! Keep the promises you made, even when life pulls you under in a whirl of work and duty. Because the day will come when you have time, money, and energy—but the one you saved it all for will be gone. And there’s nothing worse than standing before the locked door of your childhood home, knowing only cold and emptiness wait inside.
Believe me, it’s not just pain. It’s a wound that won’t heal. It’s the echo of footsteps in an empty hall, the scent of a fading hearth, the knowledge that you’ve arrived too late—forever.
