**When the Time Comes…**
The early nineties. I lived and worked in Belgiuma quiet, measured life in a small European country that seemed settled. But the world was shifting, walls crumbling, borders opening. And thenan offer too tempting to refuse. *London.* A new project. A future unfolding.
I was working on my thesis in biomedical engineering, designing devices that could map the bodys biopotentialslistening to the heart, the brain, without cuts or needles. The future of medicine was within reach.
Then the offer came. But it meant leaving. I hesitated for days before telling Mum.
She sat in the kitchen one evening, fingers tracing the beads of her rosary, the old armchair creaking softly. I gathered my courage.
“Mum I need to tell you something. Ive been offered a job. In London.”
Her eyes lifteddeep, clear, but shadowed with weariness.
“Thats far, love.” No reproach in her voice, just quiet sorrow.
“Its a chance. I could finish my thesis, work with people who understand the field”
Mum stayed silent. Only her lips trembled. Then, tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. My breath caughtId never seen her cry before.
“Youll leave and what about me?” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Im seventy-nine. I havent got much strength left.”
I pressed her hand to my cheek.
“Mum I wont abandon you. But I have to think of the future, too.”
Her gaze turned stern, almost piercing.
“Remember this, love. God doesnt waste a thing. If He opens the path for you, youll go. If not it means He wants you here.”
Then the obstacles began.
First, the university denied my sabbatical request. “Your defence cannot be postponed,” they said. I came home in tears.
“Another refusal?” my sister asked, meeting me in the hallway.
“Yes!” I threw my bag onto the chair. “I dont understand why! It couldve been arrangedI spoke to the professor!”
She squeezed my shoulder.
“Maybe its a sign?”
I scoffed.
“A sign? Dont be daft. Its paperwork!”
But my chest tightened all the same.
When the paperwork finally fell into place, the next hurdle strucka visa rejection. The clerk barely looked up. “Youre missing one document.”
I walked out, hands shaking around the folder. The urge to scream clawed at my throat.
“God, why?” I whispered.
Back home, Mum grew weaker. Even short walks left her exhausted.
“Mum should I call the doctor?” I asked carefully.
She smiled.
“No need. I know what I feel.”
That night, I sat by her bed. She took my hand.
“Darling, dont torment yourself. Therell be time. Right now, I need you here.”
I pressed her palm to my face.
“Mum, I wont go.”
Her gaze drifted, as if seeing something just beyond my sight.
“Youll stay. Because thats how the Lords arranged it.”
Three days later, she was gone.
The house fell silent. Even the walls seemed to weep.
I sat by the window as candles flickered and hushed voices filled the hall.
Then the phone rang. The embassy.
“Your documents are approved. All signatures in place. Youre free to come.”
I lowered the receiver, breathless. Two days agonothing. Everything had shattered. Noweverything was decided.
I wept, knowing it wasnt coincidence. I was meant to stay. To be there. To walk her home.
Only then did the path open.
Now, looking back, I hear her voice, clear as day:
*”If God opens the way for you, youll go.”*
And He did. But only when she was already watching from heaven.
