My son Nishan lives just ten minutes away, yet he hadn’t visited in over a year. Since moving in with his girlfriend, my calls and small money transfers went unanswered, leaving me with silence that hurt more than anger ever could. When I finally reached him, he said, “I’m busy, Ma. I’ll visit when I can,” indifferent yet polite.
Weeks passed, and I stopped calling, keeping busy with chores to dull the ache. Then one day, a woman named Reena knocked. She’d met Nishan recently and brought a photo—he’d lost his job, moved out, and was living in a laundry room. Ashamed, he hadn’t reached out to anyone.
I left food ready at home and searched, contacting neighbors and even Zahra, but nothing. Five days later, a young man delivered word: Nishan was at a shelter, helping with job applications and asking after my cooking. I went to him, carrying lunch, and found him stunned, relieved, and finally letting himself cry.
Over time, with help from Reena’s daughter, a social worker, Nishan got a part-time job, started cooking again, and rebuilt confidence. Last week, we went for dosa at a favorite spot—he insisted on paying—and I realized that love doesn’t disappear when someone drifts away. Sometimes shame and pride keep them silent. But patience, warmth, and an open door can bring them home.