He lived just ten minutes away, but to me, it felt like a lifetime. Since he moved in with his girlfriend a year ago, my son hadn’t visited even once. I kept reaching out — texts, calls, little holiday or random-day transfers with notes like, “Buy yourself something nice.” All I ever got back were read receipts and silence.
Last week, the silence became too heavy to bear. I called again and again until finally, he picked up.
“I’m busy, Ma. Please stop calling every day. I’ll visit when I can, okay?”
It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t cruelty. Just indifference — and somehow, that stung far more than anger ever could.
When he hung up, I stayed with the phone pressed to my ear, listening to the dial tone, hoping it might tell me what I’d done wrong. I wasn’t smothering him. I just missed him — the boy who used to sneak into the kitchen for extra kheer, who’d hug me from behind while I cooked.
His name is Nishan. He’s twenty-seven now, always quiet, gentle, and far too kind for this world.
Things shifted after he met Zahra. I barely knew her, never blamed her. The one time they visited before moving into their condo, she was polite but distant. I made kheer; she barely touched it. Nishan didn’t ask for seconds. That alone should have been a warning.
After that, the distance grew. I kept sending money, telling myself he was just busy. But after that last call, something inside me froze. I didn’t call again. I cleaned — the way you do when loneliness aches. Polished the same counter until it shone, folded bedsheets no one had slept in, lined up spoons like little soldiers.
That’s when I heard the knock — three sharp taps.
A woman stood there, tall, in her fifties, sharp cheekbones but kind eyes.
“Are you Mrs. Dutt?” she asked. “I’m Reena. I… met your son.”
My heart clenched.
“Is he alright?”
She hesitated, then pulled out a photograph. Nishan sat on a stoop — thinner, paler, hollow-eyed.
“Taken six weeks ago,” she said. “He was in my daughter’s building — not with Zahra. He moved out months ago.”
My throat tightened. “He said they were still together.”
Reena shook her head. “They broke up. He stayed in the building a while, sleeping on a mattress in the laundry room. Lost his job in April. When bills piled up, he had to leave. Two weeks ago, he vanished again.”
The word slipped out: “Homeless?”
She nodded. “For a while. I think he was ashamed. People go quiet when they feel they’ve disappointed the person who loves them most.”
I told her I’d been sending money. She said he refused help. Before leaving, she scribbled a phone number — her daughter’s — and promised they’d call if they heard anything.
I stared at the photo until it blurred. Then anger came — not at him, but at myself. That I’d raised a son who felt he couldn’t come home.
That night, I cooked khichdi with extra ghee — his favorite — and left it in the fridge. The smell filled the house like a promise.
For days, I searched his old neighborhood, showing his picture to shopkeepers. No one had seen him. I even texted Zahra — no reply.
Five days later, another knock. A young man, barely twenty, held a grocery bag.
“Are you Nishan’s mom?” he asked.
I nodded, afraid to hope.
“He’s been at the shelter on Sundown Street,” he said. “Helping me with job applications. He said he used to work in IT. Mentioned your cooking — something about guava pickles.” He smiled shyly. “Thought you’d want to know he’s okay.”
Relief nearly floored me. I pressed a twenty into the young man’s hand, then packed two lunchboxes — khichdi and guava pickle — and caught the next bus.
I saw him hunched over a chipped laptop, hoodie patched twice. He looked up slowly, confusion melting into disbelief.
“Ma?”
“Hi, beta.”
He broke then — crying like a dam bursting. I held him, stitching him back together with warmth.
“I didn’t want you to know,” he choked. “I messed up.”
“You didn’t mess up,” I whispered. “You just forgot where home is.”
He ate both lunchboxes like a man starved for more than food. He told me everything — lost job, frozen by panic, shame hiding him from everyone he loved. Zahra tried, but stress ended them. Shame kept him gone.
“Pity?” I said, swatting his arm. “Maybe a scolding for not calling. But pity? Never.”
He laughed. We went home. I gave him a hot shower, clean clothes, fresh sheets. That night, the house finally felt alive.
Reena’s daughter, a social worker, helped him find part-time work using his computer skills. He cooked again — burned rice, over-salted curry, wild experiments. I didn’t care. Every mistake felt like healing.
Last week, he took me for dosa at the college spot we used to frequent. Servers remembered him. He insisted on paying.
“I thought I’d lost everything,” he said. “Maybe this was the reset I needed.”
“Life breaks us,” I told him. “Sometimes it breaks us at the right door.”
What I’ve learned: people don’t vanish because they stopped caring. Sometimes they care so much they can’t show weakness. Shame wears pride, silence, self-preservation — but it lies.
Love waits. Patient, stubborn, unglamorous.
It waits with khichdi on the stove, guava pickle in the jar, the light on.
If someone you love drifts away, try again — not with blame, but with space. A gentle enough landing, and they’ll come home.