I’m still your son, Mum: a letter I couldn’t not write
Mum, you probably sit in the kitchen alone sometimes, sorting through old cards celebrating my birth, with smiling faces of people, many of whom have long since left our lives. You keep my baby blankets, a piece of my first tooth, a lock of blonde hair, as if trying to bring back when I was just a child. But no photo album can turn back time. Yet you continue to cherish them as if they’re precious because I’m your son.
I’ve grown up. I’m an adult now, 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 same boy who came home with scraped knees, bad marks in maths, teary eyes, and a heart full of hurt. Back then, you didn’t ask why or how – you just hugged me. I knew that although I might be in trouble tomorrow, today I was just loved, without conditions.
I want you to know – I’m still that same boy. Now, I just wear a tie, pay bills, and don’t call as often as I should. Not because I’ve forgotten, but because sometimes I’m ashamed of being tired, weak, or imperfect. Still, when things get tough, I mentally return to our home, where it smells of baking, and your voice still echoes: “The main thing is you’re home; we’ll handle the rest.”
Remember when you pulled that grey checkered coat from the wardrobe in year six? It was bought to grow into, and you were thrilled it finally fit. I threw a fit, thinking it looked silly. Nowadays, I own a similar coat, just from a renowned designer, and it probably costs what our entire furniture did then. But in it, I’m still that boy. Yours.
I often recall my childhood, Mum. These aren’t just memories; they are my foundation. They made me who I am. And you – you are my constant companion in these memories. You are the only one who knows who I was, how I had nightmares, feared the dark, hid under the table when our dog died. You went through everything with me. That’s why I’m still your son.
Sometimes, I’m so exhausted, Mum. Everything demands me to be the best. To work harder, earn more, keep up with it all. The slightest slip and you lose clients, respect, yourself. At home, I must also be the perfect husband, father, and support. Yet there’s only one place on earth where I can simply be a tired human. Your home.
You don’t judge or ask, “Why can’t you manage?” You just make tea, touch my shoulder and whisper, “Rest…” It’s the only place where I don’t have to put on a façade. Where I can just be. Vulnerable. And that means I’m still your son.
In this world, there are so few guarantees, Mum. Everything is uncertain; everything can crumble. Business partners deceive, friends move away, my wife might grow weary, and the kids will grow up. But you’re like a rock. The granite foundation upon which my life stands. You’re the only one whose love I never once doubted. Even when I was angry, slammed the door, or was silent for weeks.
Your love isn’t a loyalty card, a promise, or a condition. It’s like a light in the window. It simply is. It’s stood the test of time and my difficult nature. It’s withstood everything. And that’s been my most reliable support.
Mum, I love a woman – my wife. You didn’t understand her at first, you had doubts and asked, “What did you see in each other?” But I’ll tell you – she reminds me of you. She keeps our children’s first drawings, collects their funny sayings in a notebook, and wraps us in her warmth. She waits for our kids in the same way you waited for me. Scraped, with poor grades, tearful, but still ours. With love.
I look at her – and I’m less frightened for the future. I recall you – and I’m less afraid for myself. Because I know I grew up with love, and now I’m passing that love on. And that is the whole meaning.
Mum, thank you. For everything. For every tiny sock you’ve saved, for every sleepless night, for every “It’s alright, we’ll cope.” For the fact that no matter what… I’m still your son. And I always will be.
