Mother of Sons

Mother of Sons

By [Javid khan]

Category: Fiction / History / Poets

Style: Epistolary

March 4th, 1943

My dearest Thomas,

The frost still clings to the windows, though spring is tiptoeing closer each day. The boys miss you terribly. James asked again when you’ll be home. I told him what I always do: “Soon, when it’s safe.”

They don’t understand the word “war” the way we do. To them, it’s just the reason you’re not here to mend the back fence or read stories by lamplight. But they’re growing, Tom. James turned twelve last week and insisted on cutting his own cake. Peter tried to ride the neighbor’s goat and ended up with a black eye. And Samuel—quiet little Samuel—sat for an hour watching dust dance in a beam of light. He said it looked like angels learning to fly.

You’d be proud of them. They’re becoming men in a house where a man is missing.

June 22nd, 1944

Tom, love—

The garden is blooming, wild and uncontained. Just like our boys.

James has begun marching around the yard with a stick over his shoulder, calling Peter “Private.” He builds forts out of firewood and pretends to take the hill behind the well. He tells me he’ll be a real soldier like his father. My heart lurches every time I hear it. I want to be proud, but I also want to hide every map in the house and keep him twelve forever.

Peter follows him, of course, always has. But he’s softer than James. He asked me the other night if war makes people forget how to pray. I told him war is the very reason we mustn’t forget.

And Samuel—oh, that boy. He scribbles in notebooks all day, writing things I can’t quite make out. I found a poem under his pillow titled “The Father-Shaped Hole.” I cried so hard I woke him up. He said, “Don’t cry, Mama. It’s just a shape. He’ll come back to fill it.”

Please stay safe, Tom. They still need their father. And I need my husband.

November 8th, 1947

Thomas—

It snowed this morning. The first snow since you’ve been gone that didn’t feel like silence.

James is seventeen now and leaves for basic training next month. I begged him to reconsider, but the same steel I once saw in your eyes lives in his. “I have your blood,” he said. “I can’t pretend I don’t hear it calling.”

Peter’s hands are always dirty. He spends hours fixing the neighbor’s tractors, bicycles, anything with moving parts. But when he speaks, it’s with such thoughtfulness you’d think he was born old. He doesn’t plan to leave. He said his war is here—keeping this family whole.

And Samuel—my God, Tom. He published a poem in the county journal. “My Father is a Window.” They printed it on the front page. He walks the hills with a notebook and never wears shoes anymore. He’s different. Gentle, lost in clouds, but he sees the world in ways that make me hold my breath.

I sometimes wonder what kind of men they would’ve been if you hadn’t gone to war. Or maybe this is exactly what they were meant to become because you did.

May 14th, 1953

My love—

I’m writing this from the front porch. The light is golden and soft, the way it was the evening you left.

James came home last week. Not quite the same, but whole. He doesn’t speak much about what he saw, but he kisses my forehead every time he passes by, like he’s making sure I’m real.

Peter’s opening a small repair shop in town. He’s saving up to buy the boys a proper radio. I told him they don’t live here anymore, but he smiled and said, “Then I’ll tune it for you.”

And Samuel… he’s living in Paris. Can you believe that? Writing for a literary magazine, spending afternoons in smoky cafés, scribbling poems in three languages. He sent me a letter with a pressed violet and a note: “Tell Father I’m chasing sunlight, just like he chased storms.”

They’re men now, Thomas. Beautiful, imperfect, brave men. You raised them through me, somehow, even in absence. And I—well, I was only ever the keeper of their childhoods, stitching together the quiet between their questions with hope.

I pray you read these someday. I pray you return. But if you do not, know this—

They lived.

They loved.

They became.

Because you believed in something bigger than all of us.

Forever yours,

Margaret