A lump in the throat: Our children abroad, we see them only during holidays
How much I miss them
People around me often say, “You should be happy! Your son has built a life in America; he has a family and stability. Isn’t that happiness?”
Yes, I’m pleased. Of course, I am. What else can a father want for his child but to see them happy?
But why can’t I sleep at night? Why do I gaze out the window every evening, hoping to miraculously hear familiar footsteps at the door? Why does my heart ache when I see the neighbor’s grandchildren playing in the yard, while mine is somewhere far away, across the ocean?
I didn’t see my grandson take his first step. I didn’t hear his first words. Monitors and screens prevent me from hugging him; I can’t hold his hand and walk through the autumn park, can’t teach him to ride a bike. All I have is a few pixels on the screen and a voice that each week sounds further and more foreign.
“We’re all in the same boat”
The other day, I went to the park and sat on an old wooden bench where a group of people like me were gathered. Older folks who have been through a lot but aren’t used to the scariest thing—loneliness.
We started talking. Everyone had something to say, as we all share the same story.
“I have two daughters,” began a frail woman with gray hair. “The eldest has been living in Switzerland for fifteen years, the youngest moved to Spain seven years ago. They used to visit, but now… it’s always work and responsibilities. They promise to come in the summer, but something always gets in the way.”
Another woman, a bit plump with a kind face, smilingly shared, “My granddaughter is in first grade; she knows German better than English. My son and his wife bought a house in Munich, everything is going well for them there. They moved to Germany ten years ago. I visit them in the winter, and they come to me in the summer… well, for a couple of days in the countryside, and then back they go.”
I listen quietly, swallowing the lump in my throat.
A third woman sighed, looking off into the distance, “I haven’t seen my grandchildren for three years. They’re in Canada. They come less and less frequently. They say it’s expensive, it’s far… I can’t fly anymore; my legs won’t hold up. I knit them sweaters, socks, scarves—I know it’s cold there. They smile through the screen: ‘Thank you, Grandma, you’re a treasure.’ But my things just lie here in the wardrobe—no one wears them, they warm no one.”
Life from afar
Some receive costly medication from their children, some get a hundred pounds a month in support. One person’s son doesn’t get time off for holidays and can’t come home for Christmas, while another gazes wistfully as they await their daughter-in-law to bring the grandkids, even if just for a few weeks.
“And I envy you,” an unexpectedly slender woman around sixty said. “At least your children have found their place. My son is without a job, and my daughter-in-law earns next to nothing. They didn’t go anywhere, but they live as if they might as well have left… Their hope rests on my jars of preserves; I make three hundred jars of compotes, pickles, and jams over the summer. What else can I do? They wouldn’t manage without it.”
So here I sit, listening and feeling a tightening inside. Why is it this way? Why does the fate of our children mean living far from us?
We rejoice in their successes, proud of them, yet we can’t hold them close when times are tough. We can’t offer fatherly advice over a cup of tea in the kitchen, can’t just sit beside them in silence, feeling each other’s presence.
And what’s next?
We’re aging. Our children grow distant, their worlds unknown to us. They don’t know how we live, and we don’t know who they’ve become.
The day will come when there are no more Skype calls, no rare holiday meetings. Another little while will pass—they’ll fly here, but not for me, for my farewell.
But oh, how I wish to embrace my son one more time, to look into my grandson’s eyes and say, “Remember, your granddad loves you.”
Yet time slips away. And who knows if we’ll manage to…
