Andrew, put on your hat, son, its freezing out there!
Leave it, Mum, if I didnt freeze in the Arctic, I wont do it here!
Those were his last words before he left.
Andrew boarded a coach to Birmingham and, from there, set offfarther, across the sea, all the way to Canada.
He swore he would be back in two years. Twelve years passed.
Margaret, his mother, never left the old cottage.
The same coal stove, the same curtains, the same rug she had woven at twenty.
On the wall hung a photograph of Andrew in his graduation gown.
Below it lay a yellowed note: Ill be home soon, Mum. I promise.
Every Sunday Margaret tied her headscarf and walked to the post office.
She mailed a letter, knowing no reply would ever come.
She wrote about the garden, the cold, the neighbours cow.
She always finished the same way: Take care, my son. Your mother loves you.
Sometimes the postmistress would say gently,
Mrs. Margaret, perhaps not all the letters reach their destination Canada is a long way off.
Its all right, dear. If the post cant deliver, God will see them there.
Time moved differently in that village.
Spring came and went, autumn slipped by.
Margaret grew older, like a candle that dims without a sound.
Each night, before extinguishing the lamp, she whispered,
Goodnight, Andrew. Mother loves you.
One cold December day a parcel arrived.
It was not from him but from a woman she did not know.
Dear Mrs. Margaret,
My name is Eleanor. I am Andrews wife. He spoke of you often, but I never found the courage to write. Forgive me for doing so now Andrew fell ill. He fought as best he could, but he passed peacefullyhis photograph clutched in his hands.
Just before his eyes closed he said, Tell my mother Im coming home. Ive missed her every day.
I am sending you a box of his belongings.
With all our love,
Eleanor.
Margaret read the letter in silence, then sat by the stove, motionless for a long while.
The next morning the neighbours saw her carry a box inside.
She opened it slowly, as one would tend a fresh wound.
Inside lay: a blue shirt, a small notebook, and an envelope stamped For Mum.
Her hands trembled as she broke the seal. The paper smelled of snow and longing.
Mum,
If you are reading this, it is because I arrived too late. I worked, saved, but I never grasped the most important thingtime cannot be bought. I missed you every morning when the snow fell. I dreamed of your voice, your soup, our house. I may not have been the perfect son, but know thisI loved you always, in silence. In the pocket of my shirt I kept a handful of earth from our garden. I carry it with me wherever I go. When I can no longer, I hear you say, Hold on a little longer, son. If I do not return, do not weep. My love will find you in your dreams. I am home now, Mumonly I no longer need to knock on the door.
With love,
Your son, Andrew.
Margaret pressed the letter to her chest and wept quietly, a soundless sob like that of mothers who have no one left to wait for, yet still have love to give.
She washed the shirt, ironed it, and draped it over the back of his chair at the kitchen table.
From that day she never ate alone.
One chilly February night the postmistress found her asleep in the armchair, the letter in her hand, a mug of stillwarm tea on the table, a serene smile on her face. The blue shirt lay beside her as if giving an embrace.
The neighbours said the wind ceased that night. The village fell into a hush, as if someone had finally returned home. And perhaps it was true. Perhaps Andrew had kept his promise, coming back in another way.
Some promises never die; they are fulfilled in silence, between tears and snow. Because home is not always a placeit is often a reunion long awaited.
The true lesson is that love endures beyond distance and time, and the hearts promise can be kept even when the body cannot return.
