My Mother is Home

My Mother is Home

The rain drizzled outside, and a cold breeze swept through the small window of our old house. I stood in the kitchen, watching my mother hunched over the fire. Wisps of smoke curled upward, clinging to her hair, which had turned gray with time. The aroma of hot porridge filled the air, bringing me back to my childhood memories.

Back then, our family was very poor. My father passed away early, leaving my mother to shoulder the burden of raising three children alone. On cold winter mornings, she would wake up before dawn to light the fire and cook us a steaming bowl of porridge. Her hands were rough, her skin darkened by the sun and rain, yet her smile never faded.

As a child, I often resented my mother for not being like other mothers—those who dressed nicely and gave their children money for snacks. I never understood how much she sacrificed to raise us. Once, I asked her to buy me a new pair of shoes, but she only smiled and gently said:

"Wait until next month, my dear! I will get you the most beautiful shoes."

But month after month passed, and that promise never came true. I sulked, cried, and accused her of being stingy. That night, I heard her coughing in the dim light of the oil lamp, her frail shadow flickering on the wall. I didn’t know then that she stayed up late sewing, trying to earn a little more money.

Years passed, and I grew up, leaving home to study in the city. Being away, I finally understood my mother's sacrifices. Every time I visited home, she would slip a few small bills into my hand, even though I knew she had little. "Take it, my son, things are expensive over there," she said with a worried smile, her wrinkled eyes full of love.

When I graduated and found a stable job, I bought my mother a new pair of shoes. But by then, she no longer walked much. She only smiled, gently stroking the shoes and said:

"They’re beautiful, my dear, but I’m used to going barefoot."

I choked up, holding her calloused hands in mine. She never needed luxury—just for her children to grow up and be happy was enough.

That winter, my mother fell ill. I rushed home and held her frail hand in the hospital room. She was so weak, yet she still managed a smile and whispered:

"My son, you’ve done so well!"

I broke down in tears like a child. After all those years of hardship, I had never once said, "I love you, Mom." And now, as she was about to leave me, I realized that no matter how far I traveled or how successful I became, the only place I ever truly wanted to return to was home—where my mother was.

In the days that followed, I spent every moment I could with her. I cooked porridge for her, feeding her spoon by spoon, just as she had done for me when I was young. I told her stories, reminiscing about old times, hoping she could rest peacefully.

Then, one day, she quietly left me. The small house now felt empty, yet her presence still lingered everywhere. The scent of morning porridge, the crackling of the fire, the untouched shoes on the shelf…

I have traveled many roads and lived in many places, but nowhere has ever felt as warm as my mother’s embrace. Now, every time I return to my hometown, I still feel like a child, longing for her comfort, her arms around me. But my mother—my mother has become the gentle wind, the warm sunlight, the everlasting memories that will never fade.

And I know that no matter where I go, my heart will always have a home—where my mother will forever be.