There is no love more patient than a mother’s, and no waiting more painful than that of a parent left behind. Richard had success, wealth, and a life he was proud of. But in his race to the top, he left something behind… his mother. When he finally looked back, it was too late.
Richard stood at the window of his corner office, gazing at the sprawling cityscape below. Skyscrapers reached toward the heavens, their glass facades reflecting the setting sun in brilliant hues of orange and gold. Forty stories up, the cars below looked like toys and people like ants, all scurrying along in their busy lives, just like Richard…
“Sir, your wife is on line two,” his assistant’s voice came through the intercom.
“Thank you, Melissa,” Richard replied, turning from the window to pick up the phone. “Amy? Is everything alright?”
“Everything’s fine, darling. Just confirming dinner with the Hendersons tonight at seven.”
After hanging up, Richard checked his watch — an expensive Swiss timepiece Amy had given him for their anniversary.
5:30 p.m.
If he left now, he could be home in time to change before dinner. As CEO of one of the city’s fastest-growing investment firms, every minute of his day was accounted for, and every meeting was scheduled weeks in advance.
It hadn’t always been this way. Nine years ago, Richard had been just another ambitious young man from a rural backwater, dreaming of something more than the modest life his widowed mother had known.
His thoughts drifted to his mom, Deborah. When was the last time he called her? Months ago? He couldn’t quite remember. The days blurred together in an endless parade of meetings, deals, and social obligations. He hadn’t even found the time to return her calls.
“I should call her tonight after dinner,” he murmured to himself, gathering his briefcase.
But even as he made the mental note, a part of him knew he would likely forget once again. Deep down, he reassured himself that even if he didn’t call, his mother would be alright.
In a small village a 100 miles away, 70-year-old Deborah sat on her porch, a worn quilt wrapped around her thin shoulders despite the summer warmth. From this vantage point, she could see the dusty road that led to the main highway, the same path her son had taken nine years ago.
“Deborah darling! Lovely evening, isn’t it?” called Martha, her nearest neighbor who walked by with a basket of fresh eggs.
“Indeed it is, Martha,” Deborah replied with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Any word from that boy of yours?”
Deborah’s gaze drifted back to the road. “Not today. He’s very busy, you know. Important work in the city.”
“Of course, of course. Well, I’ve brought you some eggs. My hens are laying more than I can use.”
“That’s very kind. Would you like to come in for some tea?”
“Not today, I’m afraid. Got to get these to the Wilsons before dark. You take care now.”
As Martha continued on her way, Deborah’s smile faded. The truth was, she couldn’t remember the last time Richard had called.
The landline had been silent for weeks, and his letters that once arrived like clockwork on the first of each month had grown infrequent, then sporadic… and now seemed to have stopped altogether.
Inside the cottage, framed photographs chronicled Richard’s life from infancy to adulthood.
His graduation portrait held a place of honor above the mantel, alongside a picture of him with his father. It was taken just months before Henry’s heart had given out, leaving Deborah a widow and Richard fatherless at 16.
She shuffled to the small desk in the corner where she kept her diary. Opening to a fresh page, she began to write:
“June 15th
Dear diary,
No word from Richie again today. I know he’s busy building his life, and I’m proud of all he’s accomplished. So very proud. But the house feels emptier with each passing day. I miss his voice, his laugh. I miss knowing what’s happening in his life.
I considered calling him, but I don’t want to be a burden. He has his own family to worry about now… a wife, a child. What place does an old woman have in such a vibrant, modern life?
Still, I can’t help but wonder if he ever thinks of me & this place where he grew up. Sometimes I imagine packing a bag & taking the bus to the city, just showing up at his door. Would he be pleased to see me? Or would I be an unwelcome reminder of the life he left behind?
Perhaps tomorrow he’ll call. Perhaps. I’ll wait…”
Deborah closed the diary and placed it back in the drawer. She moved to the window, gazing out at the chicken coop Henry built decades ago. The hens were fewer now.
She couldn’t manage as many as she once had. But they provided eggs for her table and occasionally a bit of pocket money when she sold the surplus.
Beyond the coop lay the small pond where Richard spent countless hours as a boy, catching tadpoles and tiny fish, splashing in the cool water on hot summer days. Now it sat still and silent like a mirror reflecting the darkening sky.
“Just one call,” she whispered to the empty room. “That’s all I need.”
Days passed. But that call never came.
In the city, Richard’s life continued its relentless pace. His firm secured three major new clients, requiring late nights and weekend work. Olivia, his daughter, took her first steps and said her first words. Amy redecorated their penthouse, and threw dinner parties for clients and friends.
Through it all, thoughts of Deborah flickered at the edges of Richard’s consciousness like a candle flame in a dark room never quite extinguished.
“I should call Mom,” he would think, usually at inopportune moments: during meetings, while driving between appointments, and as he drifted off to sleep.
Once, he even picked up the phone, only to be interrupted by an urgent email from a client in Tokyo. By the time the crisis was resolved, thoughts of his mother had been pushed aside once more.
When Amy asked about Deborah, Richard assured her that his mother was fine, self-sufficient, and comfortable in her familiar surroundings.
“I asked her to move to the city, but she refused,” he explained, reminiscing about their last conversation. “Said she can’t leave the cottage or the village… too many memories.”
“We should visit her,” Amy suggested.
“We will,” Richard promised. “Once things settle down a bit.”
But things never settled down, and the visit remained an unfulfilled intention.
The first sign that something was wrong came on a Tuesday in late autumn. Richard, finally remembering to call his mother, frowned at the automated message: “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.”
“That’s odd,” he muttered, hanging up and immediately dialing again. The same message greeted him.
“It’s probably nothing,” he thought. “A telephone bill overlooked, perhaps? Mom has never been particularly good with finances.”
He sent a letter, addressing it as he always had:
Deborah
Pineblossom Manor
237 Moonstone Drive
Emeraldvale
“Mom, I tried calling but your line seems to be disconnected. Everything okay? Call me when you can.”
No response came.
A vague unease began to gnaw at Richard. He sent another letter, this time with a check enclosed, instructing her to get the phone reconnected.
