Andrew, pull on your hat, lad, its bitter outside!
Dont worry, Mum, Im not freezing in the Highlands; Ill manage, I promise!
Those are his last words before he sets off.
He hops on a coach from Bath, then catches a flight over the Atlantic to Canada, swearing he will be back in two years. Twelve years later, his promise has stretched thin.
Margaret stays in the old cottage she inherited. The same curtains hang, the same iron stove glows, the same woven rug she knitted in her youth lies on the floor. On the wall hangs a photograph of Andrew in his graduation robe, beneath it a yellowed note: Ill be home soon, Mum. I swear.
Every Sunday Margaret dons a clean kerchief and walks to the post office, sending letters even though she knows no reply will ever come. She writes about the garden, the winter, the neighbours cow, and always ends with the same words: Take care, my boy. Mum loves you.
Sometimes the postwoman offers a sympathetic smile.
Aunt Margaret, Canada is far not every letter reaches its destination.
Its all right, dear. If the post cant deliver, God will find a way.
The years drift by. Springs turn to autumns, and Margaret ages quietly, like a candle that sputters low without a flash of flame. Each night, as she douses the lamp, she whispers, Goodnight, Andrew. Mum loves you.
In December a parcel arrives, not from Andrew but from a stranger.
Dear Mrs. Margaret,
My name is Ethel. Im Andrews wife. He often spoke of you, but I never gathered the courage to write. Forgive my timing Andrew fell ill. He fought with the strength he had, then slipped away peacefully, a photograph of you clutched in his hand. His last breath was a whisper: Tell Mum Im going home. Ive missed her every day. Im sending you a box of his things. With all our love, Ethel.
Margaret reads the letter in silence, sits by the stove, stares into the fire, and says nothing. The next day the neighbours see her carrying a battered cardboard box home. She opens it slowly, as if fearing the pain might return. Inside lie a blue shirt, a small notebook of scribbles, and an envelope stamped For Mum.
Her hands tremble as she unfolds the letter. The paper smells of foreign winters and distant sorrow.
Mum,
If youre reading this, I didnt make it. I worked, saved, yet I never grasped the one thing you cant buy time. I missed you each morning when the snow fell. I dreamed of your voice and the scent of your stew. I may not have been the perfect son, but know this: I loved you always, silently. In my shirt pocket I tucked a handful of earth from our garden. It stays with me. When things are hard, I think of you and hear you say, Hold on, lad, this will pass. If I never return, dont weep. Im near in the wind, in your dreams, in the quiet. Im already home, Mum. You dont need to open any more doors. With love, your Andrew.
Margaret presses the note to her heart, weeps softly, the kind of quiet sobbing only a mother who has no one left to wait for but still has someone to love can know. She washes the shirt, dries it, irons it, and drapes it over the back of his chair at the kitchen table. From that day she never again eats alone.
One February evening the postwoman finds Margaret asleep in the armchair, a fresh letter clasped in her hand, a mug of tea steaming on the table, a serene smile on her face. The blue shirt rests on the chair as if it were a gentle embrace. Villagers say that night the wind settled over the hamlet. No dog barked, no rooster crowed, no sound pierced the hush. The village seemed to hold its breath, as if someone finally returned home.
Perhaps Andrew kept his word. Perhaps he did come back, just in a different form. Some promises never die; they manifest quietly amid snow and tears. A home isnt always a place; sometimes its the reunion youve waited a lifetime for.
