Andrew, pull on your cap, lad, its bitter cold outside!
Dont fret, Mum, I wont freeze in the Midlands; Ill manage somehow!
Those were his last words before he set off.
He boarded a coach to London, then caught a liner across the Atlantic to Canada.
He swore hed be back in two years. Twelve winters passed.
Mary, his mother, stayed in the old cottage on the village green.
The same lace curtains, the same iron stove, the same rug shed woven as a girl.
On the wall hung a photograph of Andrew in his graduation gown,
and beneath it a yellowed note: Ill be back soon, Mum. I promise.
Every Sunday Mary would don a clean kerchief and walk to the post office.
She sent letters even though she knew no reply would ever come.
She wrote about the garden, the frost, the neighbours cow, and always closed with:
Take care, my boy. Mum loves you.
Sometimes the postmistress would sigh, Aunt Mary, Canada is a long way not every letter finds its way.
Never mind, dear, Mary would answer. If the post cant deliver, God will find a road.
Years slipped by. Spring gave way to autumn, and Mary grew old without anyone noticing,
like a candle that burns low, its flame barely fluttering.
Each night, as she doused the lamp, she whispered, Goodnight, Andrew. Mum loves you.
In December a parcel arrived. Not from Andrew, but from a woman shed never met.
Dear Mrs. Mary,
My name is Eliza. Im Andrews wife. He often spoke of you, but I never gathered the courage to write.
Forgive my tardiness Andrew fell ill. He fought as long as his strength would let him, and then he went peacefully, holding your photograph in his hands.
His last breath he whispered: Tell Mum Im coming home, that Ive missed her always.
Im sending you a box of his things.
With all our love,
Eliza.
Mary read the letter in silence, sat by the hearth, stared into the fire and said nothing.
The next morning the neighbours saw her carry a battered box back to the cottage.
She opened it slowly, as if fearing another wound.
Inside lay a blue shirt, a small notebook of scribbled notes, and an envelope addressed For Mum.
Her hands trembled as she unfolded it. The paper smelled of foreign winters and distant longing.
Mum,
If youre reading this, I didnt make it back. I worked, saved, and still missed the point you cant buy time. I missed you every morning when the snow fell. I dreamed of your voice and the scent of a Sunday roast. I may not have been the perfect son, but know this: I loved you always, in my quiet way. In a pocket of my shirt I kept a handful of soil from our garden. Its always with me. When things are hard, I think of you and hear you say, Hang on, lad, this too shall pass. If I never 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.
With love,
Your Andrew.
Mary pressed the letter to her heart, wept softlyno sobbing, just the quiet tears of mothers who have no one left to wait for, yet still have someone to love.
She washed the shirt, dried it, ironed it, and draped it over the back of his chair at the kitchen table.
From that day on she never ate alone again.
One February night the postmistress found her asleep in the armchair, a letter clasped in her hand, a mug of tea steaming on the table, a calm smile on her face.
The blue shirt lay on the chair as if embracing her.
They say that night the wind in the village fell silent. No dog barked, no nightingale sang, not a sound at all.
The hamlet seemed to hold its breathas if someone had finally come home.
Perhaps Andrew kept his promise.
Perhaps he did return, just in a different form.
For some vows never die; they linger quietly amid snow and tears.
Because a home isnt always a place; sometimes its the meeting weve waited a lifetime for.
