The Window That Never Opens Again

The Window That Never Opens Again

There are some stories that live in the shadows of our memory, waiting for a quiet moment to speak. This is the story of a unique mother — my mother. By the time you reach the end, your eyes may well up too.

For the longest time, I never understood how my mother always knew when I was coming home.

As a child, when I returned from school, the door would open even before I knocked. During my college days, the moment I’d reach the gate, I’d see her face light up with joy, her warm smile waiting to welcome me home. She would greet me with love and prayers, then guide me to the courtyard where I’d sit near our brick stove while she made fresh roti. Her hands worked gently and skillfully — rolling, flipping, serving. And whenever she cooked my favorite dish, she’d challenge me in a playful tone.

It became our routine. She’d place the hot roti into the basket and tease me to see whether I could finish it before she made the next one. Somehow, just as I took my last bite, the next warm roti would land on my plate. I never knew who really won, but I always left the meal feeling full — not just in my stomach, but in my heart.

We had rules in our house. After sunset, we were not allowed to go outside. But time moved on, and after finishing my education, I got a job in Lahore. It required me to come home late at night. Yet, one thing remained the same: my mother’s routine.

Even if I returned at dawn, I never had to use my key. I tried to be quiet so as not to disturb her sleep, but just as I reached into my pocket, the door would open.

I would ask her how she always knew I had arrived. She would just smile and say that she could sense me.

Then one day, she was gone.

Her absence echoed through the house. The warmth, the light, the familiar scent of her cooking — all had vanished. The house felt like a body without a soul.

One night, not long after her passing, I came home late again. I stood outside the door with my key, waiting. Nothing happened. I knocked softly. Still nothing. I waited longer, then knocked again. No answer.

Eventually, I sat down on the steps by the door, leaning against the wall. I felt exhausted — not just from work, but from something deeper. I didn’t even realize when I fell asleep. The morning call to prayer woke me.

As I rubbed my eyes, our neighbor — my mother’s close friend — opened her door and saw me. Concerned, she walked over and gently placed her hand on my head.

She told me that my mother used to spend hours watching from the window facing the street. The moment she saw me entering the alley, she would rush down to open the door before I even got close.

She said my mother never slept until I came home, no matter how late it was. Others in the house would get disturbed by the sounds in the kitchen late at night, but she didn’t mind. Her son was coming home.

Then the neighbor looked up at the window, now firmly shut, and said softly that it would never open again.

In a world where love is often measured by words or gifts, my mother’s love was different. It was quiet and unconditional. Even after she was gone, her presence remained in the corners of that house, like a faint scent in the air.

Now, every time I come home and unlock the door myself, I feel the emptiness — not just of a house, but of the warmth that once lived there.

And sometimes, I glance up at that window. And for a fleeting moment, I hope — hope that she is still there, watching over me.

Sometimes, in the silence of my room, I think I hear the faint sound of her bangles from the kitchen, or the soft shuffle of her footsteps in the hallway. Maybe it’s just memory playing tricks—or maybe love this deep never really fades. It just changes its shape and lives on.

Writer Habib ullah chamkani