Leave the Light On

I’ll Leave the Light On

by [Ikram Ullah]

The storm had rolled in hours ago, turning the quiet coastal town into a blurred watercolor of rain, wind, and shadows. It rattled the shutters, hissed through the cracks in the old house, and painted the windows with streaks of water that distorted the view of the street below.

Still, the porch light stayed on.

Every evening, without fail, Margaret flipped the switch before the sun slipped beneath the horizon. It had been that way for seventeen years—since the day Daniel left for the city, promising it was “just for a while” until he found steady work. She had told him then, half-joking and half-serious, “You’ll always find your way home. I’ll leave the light on for you.”

Seventeen years was a long time to keep a promise.

Tonight, the bulb glowed against the darkness like a stubborn ember that refused to die. It cast a soft circle of gold on the porch, illuminating the rocking chair where Margaret sometimes sat in summer evenings, and the welcome mat that had faded from Welcome to Welc…e.

Inside, Margaret sat in her own chair, the one near the fireplace. She was knitting, though the rhythm of her needles was slow, distracted. The old clock in the corner ticked, each sound like a tiny reminder of how long it had been.

The phone had rung less and less over the years. At first, Daniel called weekly. Then monthly. Then, only on birthdays and Christmas. Now, it had been nearly three years since she’d heard his voice. Margaret told herself he was busy, maybe traveling, maybe somewhere where phone service wasn’t reliable. But late at night, she wondered if maybe he simply… didn’t want to come back.

She never let those thoughts linger too long. That was how hope withered.

The wind rose, carrying the scent of salt and rain. A loose shutter banged against the side of the house. Margaret set her knitting aside and went to the window. Across the street, the neighbor’s house was dark—everyone was bracing for the storm. She glanced toward the road, but it was empty, just the wet shimmer of asphalt under the streetlight.

Then, faintly, through the downpour, she saw something.

A shadow moved along the sidewalk, hunched against the wind. It was far away, nearly swallowed by the night, but there was a certain heaviness in the gait, a certain familiarity in the way the figure paused at each intersection, as if trying to remember the way.

Margaret’s breath caught. Her hand went to the porch light switch, not to turn it off, but to press it once—an old signal. One quick blink of light. When Daniel was a boy, it had been their secret code: Dinner’s ready.

The figure stopped. Turned. Stared in her direction.

And then—slowly—it started walking toward the house.

Margaret’s heart thudded. The years had changed her boy, no doubt. He would be taller, older, maybe thinner or heavier, with lines on his face from a life she hadn’t seen. But a mother always knows.

She opened the door before he reached the steps. The warm porch light spilled onto the rain-slick street, and in that golden glow she finally saw him—his coat soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes were tired, but they were the same eyes she’d kissed goodnight a thousand times.

“Hi, Mom,” he said, voice trembling.

Margaret didn’t speak. She simply stepped forward and pulled him into her arms, the smell of rain and cold clinging to him.

For a moment, they just stood there, the storm raging around them, the porch light holding back the darkness like a guardian.

When she finally let go, she looked up at him. “You’re home.”

He nodded. “I… I didn’t know if you’d still want me to be.”

“Daniel,” she said firmly, “I told you. I’ll always leave the light on for you.”

Something broke in his expression—relief, regret, love all tangled together. He followed her inside, dripping water onto the worn floorboards, and she led him to the fire. The kettle was already on, though she hadn’t remembered putting it there.

As the wind howled outside, Daniel told her pieces of his story—jobs that fell through, mistakes that piled up, a marriage that had ended before it began. He admitted he had been ashamed, that he thought she deserved a son who had “made something of himself” before coming back.

Margaret just shook her head. “You think I care about that? You think the light was for someone perfect? It was for you, Daniel. Always you.”

By the time the tea was finished, the storm was beginning to fade. The house was quiet except for the crackle of the fire. Margaret knew there would be more conversations—hard ones, maybe even angry ones—but for tonight, she was content.

Daniel had come home.

Outside, the porch light still burned, casting its warm circle onto the wet porch, a beacon in the night. For the first time in years, it didn’t feel like it was waiting for someone.

It felt like it was welcoming someone back.