Returning to the family home with no one waiting for you…
I never imagined that I, a man nearing 50, a technician through and through, typically reserved and, according to my wife, even a bit dull, would sit down at a computer not to work but to write a letter. Sixteen years ago, I left for a job overseas, settled quickly, and took my family with me.
Shortly after, my father passed away, and my mother was left alone.
She never complained, never reproached me, never implied that there was no one to care for her—I am her only son. We spoke often, and she assured me that she was doing well and that everything was fine.
Her question, “Will you be visiting soon?” confessed that she did feel sad and very lonely.
Hand on heart, I can say that I cared about her, thought about her, never abandoned her, and not for a moment forgot her. My greatest failing was not keeping my promise.
Every year, I would return to England in August when the company was on holiday, and this was our time.
Returning to my father’s house
We would visit friends and family, travel to places that reminded her of her youth with my father, and as she grew older, I would take her to doctors and health retreats.
We went to the movies together, wandered around, and had guests over. She spoiled me with dishes and desserts I loved since childhood.
She would always see me off at the entrance of the building, never coming to the airport… so I wouldn’t see her tears.
I kept promising her that this time, I would make every effort to come home for Christmas or Easter, at the latest before the next August. That is where I failed to keep my promise, and I feel terribly guilty.
Yes, I returned home at the beginning of last December, but not to hug my mum, not to smell her famous cinnamon cake, not to be greeted with mulled wine and walnuts, but to say goodbye one last time.
I couldn’t bear the pain and disappointment in my heart.
My only solace was that my mother passed away peacefully, as a good person, in her sleep, without suffering.
But it didn’t lessen the weight in my heart; it didn’t ease my conscience; it didn’t quash the feeling that I was truly alone. And this time, I returned in August as usual.
But when I stood before the locked door, I felt the longing choke me. I didn’t hear footsteps in the hallway, didn’t smell baked peppers or roasted plums…
I thought the ceiling would come crashing down on me.
It took me a few days to approach my mother’s belongings, but I could never bring myself to throw anything away; even newspapers were collected.
I want to tell sons who live far from their parents: visit often, even if it’s challenging for you, and keep your promises.
Because the day comes when we have both time and opportunity, but we’re missing the most important thing—a loved one to meet us.
Believe me, there’s no more daunting trial than standing before a locked door of your parent’s home.
