Returning to your childhood home and finding no one waiting for you…
I never believed that at nearly 50 years old, a man with a technical mind, often quiet and, as my wife would say, somewhat dull-witted, would sit at a computer not to work, but to write a letter.
Sixteen years ago, I left for a job abroad, quickly adjusted, and took my family with me.
Shortly after, my father passed away, leaving my mother alone.
She never complained, never blamed me, never implied that she needed someone to care for her – I was her only son. We often spoke, and she always said how well she was doing and how everything was fine.
Yet, the question always came: “Will you be coming soon?” That was her way of expressing that she was truly sad and very lonely.
With hand on heart, I can say I cared for her, thought of her, never abandoned her, never forgot her for a second. My biggest regret is not keeping my promise.
Every year, I would return to England in August when the entire company took a holiday; that was our time.
Back to the childhood home
Returning to my father’s house
We’d visit friends and family, go to places that reminded her of her youth with my dad, and as the years passed, I’d take her to doctors and health spas.
We went to the cinema together, strolled around, and hosted guests. She’d spoil me with dishes and sweets I loved since childhood.
She always saw me off to the entrance of the apartment block but didn’t come to the airport… so I wouldn’t see her tears.
I kept promising her that this time, I would try my best to come home for Christmas or Easter, at the latest by the following August. That’s where I failed to keep my word, and I feel terribly guilty.
Yes, I came home at the beginning of December last year, but not to hug my mum, not to smell her famous cinnamon cake, not to be greeted with mulled wine and walnuts, but to bid her farewell for the last time.
I couldn’t bear the pain and disappointment within me.
My only consolation was that my mother passed away peacefully, quietly, in her sleep, as a righteous person.
But this did not lighten the weight in my heart or soothe my conscience; it didn’t quell the feeling that I’m now alone. And this time, I returned in August, as I always have.
However, standing in front of the locked door, I felt grief choking me. No footsteps in the hallway, no smell of roasted peppers or fried plums…
I felt as if the ceiling would come crashing down on me.
It took several days to sort through my mother’s belongings, but I couldn’t bring myself to move anything, not even the newspapers she collected.
I’d like to tell sons who live far from their parents: visit often, no matter how hard it may be for you, and keep your promises.
Because a day will come when we have both the time and the ability, but we lack the most important thing – the loved one to welcome us.
Believe me, there’s no greater trial than facing the locked door of your father’s house.
