Andrew, pull on your hat, lad, its bitter outside!
Dont worry, Mum, Im not freezing in Transylvania; Ill manage here, I promise!
Those are his last words before he walks out the door.
Andrew hops on a coach to London, then catches a flight across the Atlantic to Canada.
He swears hell be back in two years. Twelve years later, the promise hangs in the air.
Mary, his mother, stays in the old cottage on the village lane.
The same lace curtains, the same openfire stove, the same woollen rug she wove as a girl.
On the wall hangs a photograph of Andrew in his graduation gown, and beneath it a yellowed note: Ill be home soon, Mum. I swear.
Every Sunday Mary dresses in a clean kerchief and walks to the post office.
She writes letters about the garden, the winter, the neighbours cow, even though she knows no reply will come.
She always signs: Take care, my son. Mum loves you.
Sometimes the postwoman sighs sympathetically:
Aunt Mary, Canada is far not every letter makes it.
Its all right, dear. If the post cant deliver, God will find a way.
Seasons turn; spring melts into autumn, and Mary ages quietly, like a candle that burns low without a flare.
Each night, as she snuffs out the lamp, she whispers, Goodnight, Andrew. Mum loves you.
In December a parcel arrives. It isnt from Andrew but from a stranger.
Dear MrsMary,
My name is Eliza, Andrews wife. He often spoke of you, but I was hesitant to write. Im sorry it takes me so long Andrew fell ill. He fought as long as he could, then slipped away peacefully, his hand clutching your photograph. His last breath whispered: Tell Mum Im home now, that Ive missed her every day. Im sending you a box of his things. With all our love, Eliza.
Mary reads the letter in silence, sits by the stove, watches the fire flicker, and says nothing.
The next day the neighbours see her carry a small box home. She opens it slowly, as if fearing another wound. Inside lie a blue shirt, a tiny notebook filled with scribbles, and an envelope stamped For Mum.
Her hands tremble as she unfolds the paper. The ink carries the scent of foreign winters and distant grief.
Mum, if youre reading this, I didnt make it back. I worked, saved money, and missed the point you cant buy time. I thought of you each morning as the snow fell. Your voice and the smell of stew haunted my dreams. I may not have been the perfect son, but know that I loved you quietly, always. I tucked a clod of earth from our garden into my shirt pocket; its with me wherever I go. When things are hard, I hear you say, Hold on, lad, itll pass. If I dont return, dont weep. Im with you in the wind, in dreams, in the hush. Im already home, Mum; you just dont need to open any more doors. Love, your Andrew.
Mary presses the letter to her heart, weeps soft tears that never turn into sobs, the kind mothers shed when theres no one left to wait for, yet still someone to love.
She washes the blue shirt, dries it, irons it, and drapes it over the back of his favourite armchair by the table. From that day she never eats alone again.
One February evening the postwoman finds Mary asleep in the chair, a letter clasped in her hand, a steaming mug on the table, a calm smile on her face. The blue shirt rests on the chair as if giving her an embrace.
They say that night the village wind fell silent. No dog barked, no nightingale sang, not a single sound broke the hush. The hamlet seemed to hold its breath, as if someone finally returned home.
Perhaps Andrew kept his promise. Perhaps he came back, just in another way.
Because some vows never die; they happen quietly, amid snow and tears. A home isnt always a place; sometimes its the meeting youve waited a lifetime for.
