I’m still your son, Mum: a letter I couldn’t keep from writing
Mum, I imagine you sometimes sit alone at the kitchen table, going through old cards full of congratulations and well-wishes on my birth. People appear smiling on them, many of whom have drifted away from our lives. You’ve kept my baby blankets, a snippet of my first tooth, and a lock of blond hair, as if trying to bring back the days when I was so little. Yet no album can turn back time. Still, you treasure those things as if they were gold, because I’m your son.
I’ve grown up. I’m an adult. I’m in my thirties now, with a wife, a job, a flat, and a lifetime of responsibilities. But you know, Mum? I’m still yours. That same boy who came home with scraped knees, maths failures, tearful eyes, and inner pain. You never questioned why or how back then—you just held me tight. I knew I might be punished tomorrow, but today I was simply loved. Unconditionally.
I want you to know—I’m still that same boy. Only now I wear a tie, pay bills, and don’t call often enough. Not because I’ve forgotten, but sometimes I feel ashamed of being tired, imperfect, or weak. Yet when times are tough, I mentally retreat to our house, where it smells of baking and where your voice still echoes: “What matters most is that you’re home. The rest we’ll manage.”
Do you remember in year six when you pulled out a grey coat with brown checks from the wardrobe? It was bought for me to grow into, and you were delighted that it finally fit. But I threw a tantrum, thinking I looked silly in it. Now, I have a similar coat—only it’s a designer brand, picked by a stylist, and it probably costs as much as all our furniture back then. Yet in it, I remain that same boy. Yours.
I often recollect our childhood, Mum. Because they’re not just memories. They’re my foundation. They’ve shaped me into who I am today. And you are my sole companion in those memories. Only you know how I was then. How I wandered feverishly at night, feared the dark, hid under the table when the dog was dying. You’re the only one who lived through it all with me. That’s why I’m still your son.
Sometimes I get so weary, Mum… Everything around expects me to be the best. Work harder, earn more, manage everything. If you slip, you lose clients, lose respect, lose yourself. At home, I must be the ideal too. A husband, a father, a pillar. But there’s one place on earth that allows me to be just a tired person. Your home.
You don’t blame or ask, “Why can’t you handle it?” You simply make tea, place a hand on my shoulder and whisper, “Have a rest…” It’s the only place where I don’t need to keep a brave face. Where I can just be. As I am. Vulnerable. It means I’m still your son.
There are few certainties in this world, Mum. Everything is uncertain, everything can collapse. Business partners might deceive, friends might leave, a wife might weary, children will grow up. But you’re like a rock. Like the granite foundation my life stands on. You’re the only person whose love I’ve never doubted. Even when angry, even when I slammed doors, even when silent for weeks.
Your love isn’t a loyalty card, not a promise, not conditional. It’s like a light in the window. It simply exists. It’s stood the test of time and my difficult nature. It’s stood firm through everything. And it is the strongest support I’ve ever had.
Mum, I love a woman. She’s my wife. You didn’t understand her at first, you doubted, you asked, “What do you see in each other?” But let me tell you—she’s like you. She keeps our children’s first drawings, collects funny sayings in a notebook, and warms us with her kindness. She waits for our children just as you waited for me. Bruised, with poor grades, in tears—but hers. With love.
When I look at her, I feel less afraid of the future. Thinking of you calms my worries for myself. Because I know: I grew up in love, and now I’m passing that love on. That’s the whole point.
Mum, thank you. For everything. For every saved sock, every sleepless night, every, “It’s alright, we’ll get through it.” For, despite everything… I’m still your son. And I always will be.
