A Lump in the Throat: Our Children Abroad, Only Seeing Them on Holidays
How I miss them
People around me often say, “You should be happy! Your son’s made a life for himself in America, with a family and stability. Isn’t that lucky?”
Yes, I’m glad. Of course, I’m glad. How could I not be? What else could a father want for his child but to see them content?
Then why am I unable to sleep at night? Why do I gaze out the window every evening, hoping to miraculously hear those familiar footsteps at the door? Why does my heart ache when I see the neighbor’s grandchildren playing in the yard while mine are across the ocean?
I missed my grandson’s first steps. I didn’t hear his first words. Screens and monitors prevent me from hugging him. I can’t hold his hand and stroll through the autumn park, can’t teach him to ride a bike. All I have are a few pixels on a screen and a voice that seems more distant and unfamiliar each passing week.
“We’re all in the same boat”
Recently, I went to the park and sat on an old wooden bench, where others like me had already gathered. Folks who’ve been through a lot but aren’t accustomed to the worst of it—loneliness.
We started talking. Everyone had something to share, as our stories were much the same.
“I’ve got two daughters,” began a frail woman with silver 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… So many obligations. They promise to come in the summer, but something always gets in the way.”
Another, a plump lady with a kind face, smiled as she shared:
“My granddaughter is in first grade now, and she speaks German better than English. My son and daughter-in-law bought a house in Munich, and everything’s great there. They moved to Germany ten years ago. I visit them in the winter, and they come to me in the summer… Well, visit me? They stop by the village for a couple of days—then back.”
I listen quietly, swallowing the lump in my throat.
A third woman sighed, staring into the distance:
“I haven’t seen my grandkids in three years. They’re in Canada. They come less frequently. They say it’s too expensive, too far… I can’t fly anymore; my legs won’t support me. I knit them sweaters, socks, scarves—I know it’s cold there. They smile through the screen: ‘Thank you, Gran, you’re our treasure.’ But my things just stay in the closet, unused, not warming anyone.”
A Life at a Distance
Some receive expensive medications from their children, others get a hundred pounds a month for support. Some sons can’t get leave from work for the holidays, unable to come home for Christmas, while others eagerly await a daughter-in-law’s visit with the grandchildren for at least a couple of weeks.
“And I’m envious of you,” unexpectedly said a thin woman in her sixties. “At least your kids have settled. My son’s unemployed, and my daughter-in-law earns pennies. They haven’t left, but they live as though they should have… All their hope is in my preserves; I jar up three hundred cans of compotes, cucumbers, jams over the summer. What can you do? They can’t manage without it.”
So here I sit, listening, feeling my heart clench. Why is it this way? Why does our children’s fate lead them far from us?
We celebrate their achievements, take pride in them, but can’t embrace them when times are tough. We can’t offer fatherly advice over a cup of tea in the kitchen, can’t simply sit beside them in silence yet feel so connected.
What next?
We’re aging. Our children become strangers, their lives unknown to us. They don’t understand how we live. And we can’t grasp who they’ve become.
The day will come when there are no more calls on Skype, no more rare holiday visits. Time will pass, and they’ll come—not to see me—but to say goodbye.
Still, I long to hug my son one more time, to look into my grandson’s eyes and say, “Remember, Grandpa loves you.”
But time slips away. And who knows if we’ll make it…
