Andrew, pull your cap on, love, it’s freezing out there!
Leave it, Mum, if I didn’t freeze in Transylvania, I’m not dying here!
Those were his last words before he vanished.
Andrew boarded a coach to London, then caught a flight, crossed the Atlantic and disappeared into the wilds of Canada, swearing hed be back in two years. Twelve winters passed.
Mary, his mother, never left the old stone cottage on the edge of the Yorkshire moors. The same coalfire stove, the same tweed curtains, the same handwoven rug shed made at twenty. On the wall hung a photograph of Andrew in his graduation gown, beneath it a yellowed note: Ill be home soon, Mum. I promise.
Every Sunday Mary wrapped her woollen scarf and walked to the post office. She sent a letter, fully aware no reply would ever come. She wrote of the garden, the bitter cold, the neighbours cow, always closing with the same refrain: Take care of yourself, my son. Your mother loves you.
Sometimes the postwoman would smile gently and say, Mrs. Carter, not every letter makes it that far Canada is a long way off.
Never mind, dear. If the post cant deliver, God will see it to its destination.
Time moved differently in that isolated valley. Springs slipped by, autumn leaves fell, and Mary aged like a candle slowly burning out in the night. Each evening, before she snuffed the oil lamp, she whispered, Goodnight, Andrew. Mother loves you.
One bleak December morning a parcel arrived. It wasnt from him but from a woman Mary had never met.
Dear Mrs. Carter,
My name is Eliza. I was Andrews wife. He spoke of you often, but I never had the courage to write. Forgive my intrusion Andrew fell ill. He fought as best he could, and when he closed his eyes he held a photograph of you in his hands. His last words were, Tell my mother Im coming home. Ive missed her every day. Im sending you a box of his things. With all our love,
Eliza.
Mary read the note in stunned silence, then sat beside the hearth, motionless for what seemed an eternity. The next day the neighbours saw her carry a battered box into the cottage. She opened it slowly, as one would peel back an old wound. Inside lay a blue shirt, a small notebook, and a sealed envelope stamped, For Mother.
Her trembling hands unsealed it. The paper smelled of snow and longing.
Mother,
If youre reading this, Ive come back far too late. I worked, I saved, but I never understood the one thing that cannot be boughttime. I missed you every morning the snow fell. I dreamed of your voice, your soup, our home. I may not have been a good son, but know thisI loved you in the quiet of my heart. In the pocket of my shirt I kept a handful of soil from our garden; I carry it wherever I go. When I could no longer stand, I heard you whisper, Hold on a little longer, my boy. If I never return, do not weep. My love will find you in your dreams. I am home now, Motherthough I no longer need to knock on a door. With love,
Your son, Andrew.
Mary clutched the letter to her chest, tears slipping silently down her cheeks, the kind of silent grief only a mother who has waited too long can know. She washed the shirt, ironed it, and draped it over the back of his favourite chair at the kitchen table. From that night onward she never ate alone.
A cold February night the postwoman found her asleep in the armchair, the letter clasped 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 swore the wind had ceased that night; the village fell hushed, as if someone had finally returned home.
Perhaps Andrew kept his promise. Perhaps he came back, just in a different form. Some promises never die; they are fulfilled in quiet tears and the soft fall of snow, because home is not always a placeit is the reunion long awaited, a love that endures beyond the grave.
