A Lump in the Throat: Our Children Abroad, Only Seen on Holidays
How much I miss them
People around me often say, “You should be happy! Your son has made a life for himself in America, with a family and stability. Isn’t that happiness?”
Yes, I’m happy. Of course, I’m happy. How could I not be? After all, what else could a father wish for his child, if not to see them happy?
But why, then, do I lie awake 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 across the ocean?
I didn’t see my grandson take his first step. I didn’t hear his first words. Screens and monitors keep us apart—I can’t hold his hand and take him for a stroll through the autumn park, I 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, more foreign each passing week.
“We’re all in the same boat”
The other day, I walked to the park and sat on an old wooden bench, where a group had gathered—people like me. Old folks who have been through a lot but still can’t get used to the loneliest feeling of all—being alone.
We started talking. Everyone had something to share, for we all had the same story.
“I have two daughters,” began a frail woman with gray hair. “The older one has been living in Switzerland for fifteen years, the younger moved to Spain seven years ago. They used to visit, but now… Always busy with something. They promise to come in the summer, but something always gets in the way.”
Another, a plump lady with a kind face, said with a smile:
“My granddaughter is in first grade, speaks German better than English. My son and his wife bought a house in Munich, everything’s going well for them. They moved to Germany ten years ago. I visit them in winter, and they come to see me… Well, sort of. They stop by the village for a couple of days before heading back.”
I listen silently, swallowing the lump in my throat.
A third woman sighed, gazing into the distance:
“I haven’t seen my grandchildren in three years. They’re in Canada. They visit less and less often. They say it’s expensive, far away… 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 our treasure.’ But my things just sit in the closet—they don’t wear them, they don’t warm anyone.”
Living Apart
Some receive expensive medicine from their children, others get a hundred pounds a month for support. Some have sons who can’t get time off for holidays, and won’t make it home for Christmas, while others wait with longing eyes for a daughter-in-law to bring the grandchildren for just a couple of weeks.
“Well, I’m envious of you all,” unexpectedly remarked a thin woman in her sixties. “At least your children have settled. But my son is out of work, and my daughter-in-law earns peanuts. They haven’t gone anywhere, but they live in such a way that it’s as if they have… They rely on my preserves—every summer, I jar three hundred cans of compote, pickles, jam. What else can I do? They wouldn’t manage without it.”
And here I sit, listening, feeling everything tighten inside. Why is it this way? Why is the fate of our children a life far from us?
We celebrate their successes, we’re proud of them, but we can’t hold them close when things get tough. We can’t share fatherly advice over a cup of tea in the kitchen, can’t just sit quietly together, feeling the presence of one another.
And what happens next?
We grow old. Our children become strangers; their worlds are unknown to us. They don’t know how we live, and we don’t know who they’ve become.
And then, the day will come when there are no more Skype calls, no more rare holiday visits. A little more time will pass—and they’ll come, but not to visit me, rather to bid their farewells.
Still, I just wish I could hug my son tightly once more, look into my grandson’s eyes, and say, “Remember, your granddad loves you.”
But time slips away. And who knows if we’ll have enough of it…
