The Light in the Window

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There’s a house at the end of my old street with a small window that faces the road. It’s nothing special—just a regular house, with a red door and a white fence. But for me, that window means something more.

When I was a little girl, my mother always left the light on in that window. Every night, no matter what time I came home, the light was always glowing softly. It was warm and golden, like a small sun in the dark.

I remember walking home from school on cold winter days. My hands would be freezing, and my backpack felt heavy. But when I saw the light in the window, I felt better. I knew I was almost home. I knew that someone was waiting for me.

Sometimes, the smell of soup would greet me as I walked in the door. My mother would smile and say, “You’re just in time.” Other times, I would find her sitting on the couch with a book in her lap and tea in her hand. But no matter what she was doing, she always noticed me. She always looked up and smiled.

The light in the window was her way of saying, “I’m here. I haven’t forgotten you.”

As I got older, I stopped noticing the window so much. I stayed out later. I made new friends, started work, and spent more time away from home. But still, whenever I came back, that light was there—always on, always warm.

Then one day, everything changed. My mother passed away after a short illness. The house felt different without her. It was quieter, and the air felt heavier. The light in the window was still there for a while, but it wasn’t the same. My father turned it on out of habit, but we both knew what was missing.

Eventually, I moved away. The house stayed in the family, but I didn’t visit often. Life got busy. I had work, a new city, and new routines. Years passed.

Then one autumn evening, I decided to take a trip back. I didn’t tell anyone I was coming. I just wanted to see the old street, the old house, and maybe feel close to her again.

As I walked along the sidewalk, the leaves crunching beneath my feet, I saw it—the house. It hadn’t changed much. The paint was a little worn, and the fence needed fixing. But the window was still there. And to my surprise, the light was on.

My heart felt full and heavy at the same time. I walked closer and stood outside for a moment, just looking. The warm glow filled the glass, the same way it had when I was small. I don’t know if it was my father who turned it on, or someone else, but in that moment, it felt like a message from her.

“I’m still here. I haven’t forgotten you.”

I knocked on the door, and my father opened it. His eyes lit up when he saw me. “You came home,” he said with a smile.

I nodded. “I saw the light.”

We sat down for tea and talked about everything and nothing. The house felt warmer than I remembered. Not because of the heat, but because of the memories that lived in every corner. The light in the window had brought me home again.

Now, every time I think of that window, I think of love. It wasn’t just a lamp or a lightbulb. It was a symbol. A small, shining reminder that someone cared. That I was not alone. That no matter how far I went, I could always come back.

And one day, if I have a house of my own, I’ll leave a light in the window too. For someone else. For anyone who needs to know they’re not forgotten. That they are loved. That home is still waiting.

Because sometimes, the smallest light can lead you back.