Andrew, put your hat on, love, its freezing out there!
Dont worry, Mum, Im not going to freeze in Transylvania, Ill manage, he shouted back, his last words before he left.
He hopped on a coach to London, then caught a flight across the Atlantic to Canada. He promised hed be back in two years. Twelve years later, he still hadnt.
Mary, his mother, stayed in the old terraced house theyd lived in for decades. The same lace curtains, the same castiron stove, the same worn carpet shed woven when she was a girl. On the wall hung a photo of Andrew in his graduation gown, and beneath it a yellowed note: Ill be back soon, Mum. I promise.
Every Sunday Mary slipped on a fresh kerchief and walked down to the post office. She wrote letters about the garden, the winter, the neighbours cow, even though she knew no reply would ever come. She always signed off the same way: Take care, my boy. Mum loves you.
Sometimes the postwoman would smile sympathetically and say, Aunt Mary, Canadas a long way not every letter gets there.
And Mary would chuckle, Oh, dear, if the post cant deliver, God will find a road.
The years drifted on. Spring turned to autumn, and Mary grew older, like a candle that burns low without a blaze. Each night, as she dimmed the lamp, shed whisper, Goodnight, Andrew. Mum loves you.
In December a parcel arrived. Not from him, but from a stranger.
Dear Mrs. Mary,
My name is Elizabeth. Im Andrews wife. He talked about you often, but I never had the courage to write. Im sorry its so late Andrew fell ill. He fought as long as he could, then passed away peacefully, holding your photograph in his hands. His last breath was a whisper: Tell Mum Im coming home, that Ive always missed her. Im sending you a box of his things. With all our love, Elizabeth.
Mary read the letter in silence, sat by the fire, stared at the flames and said nothing. The next day the neighbours saw her lug a small box home. She opened it slowly, as if fearing the pain would rush back.
Inside lay: a blue shirt, a tiny notebook of scribbled notes, and an envelope stamped For Mum. Her hands trembled as she unfolded the paper. The ink smelled of foreign winters and distant longing.
Mum,
If youre reading this, I didnt make it. I worked, saved money, but I never bought the one thing that matters time. I missed you every morning when the snow fell. I dreamed of your voice and the smell of your borscht. I may not have been the perfect son, but know this I loved you always, quietly. In the pocket of this shirt I kept a handful of soil from our garden. Its always with me. When things get hard, I think of you and hear you say, Hang on, love, itll pass. If I dont return, dont weep. Im with you in the wind, in dreams, in the quiet. Im home now, Mum, just the door doesnt need opening. With love, your Andrew.
Mary pressed the letter to her heart, tears slipping out softly, not the wailing kind but the gentle sobs of a mother who has no one left to wait for, yet still has someone to love. She washed the shirt, dried it, ironed it, and draped it over the back of his favourite armchair by the kitchen table. From that day on she never ate alone again.
One February evening the postwoman found Mary asleep in that chair, a letter clutched in her hand, a mug of tea steaming on the table, a calm smile on her face. The blue shirt rested on the chair as if giving her a hug.
They say that night the wind in the village fell silent. No barking, no singing, no creak of a door. The whole hamlet seemed to hold its breath, as if someone finally came home. And perhaps thats exactly what happened. Maybe Andrew kept his promise after all, just in a different way. Some promises never die; theyre kept quietly, beneath the snow and the tears. Because a home isnt always a place. Sometimes its the reunion youve waited a lifetime for.
