Mum, you probably sit alone in the kitchen sometimes, flipping through old birthday cards filled with wishes celebrating my arrival. The faces smiling back are people who’ve long since left our lives. You keep my baby socks, a tiny milk tooth, a lock of fair hair—as if holding onto those things could bring back the days when I was small. No photo album can turn back time, yet you cherish them like treasure. Because I’m your son.
I’ve grown up. I’m a man now. In my thirties, with a wife, a job, a flat in London, and responsibilities as long as life itself. But you know what, Mum? I’m still yours. The same boy who came home with scraped knees, a failing maths grade, or eyes brimming with tears you never questioned. You just hugged me. Back then, I knew—I might face consequences tomorrow, but today, I was simply loved. No conditions.
I wish you knew—I’m still that boy. Just now, I wear a tie, pay the bills, and call too rarely. Not because I’ve forgotten. But because it’s hard sometimes to admit I’m tired, weak, imperfect. Yet when life weighs heavy, my mind drifts back to our home, where the air smells of shortbread and your voice still murmurs, *”You’re home now—that’s all that matters.”*
Remember Year Six, when you pulled that grey checkered coat from the wardrobe? Bought “to grow into,” you were thrilled it finally fit. I threw a tantrum, convinced I looked ridiculous. Now I own one just like it—designer, styled, probably costing what our old sofa did. But in it, I’m still your boy.
I think of my childhood often, Mum. Not just as memories, but as my foundation. The stuff that made me *me*. And you’re the only one who walked that path with me. Only you know the boy who ran a fever at midnight, feared the dark, hid under the table when our terrier, Biscuit, died. You lived it all beside me. So I’ll always be yours.
Some days, I’m so tired, Mum… The world demands more—work harder, earn more, never slip. Lose focus, and clients vanish, respect fades, you lose yourself. At home, I’m meant to be flawless too—husband, father, rock. But one place lets me just *be*. Yours.
You don’t scold or ask, *”Why can’t you handle it?”* You just steep the tea, rest a hand on my shoulder, and whisper, *”Rest a while…”* It’s the only place I don’t have to keep up appearances. Where I can be vulnerable. And that’s how I know—I’m still your son.
Life offers few guarantees. Business partners betray, friends move on, wives grow weary, children fly the nest. But you? You’re bedrock. The granite beneath my feet. The one love I’ve never doubted—not when I slammed doors, not when I gave you the silent treatment for weeks.
Your love isn’t a loyalty card or a promise. It’s a light in the window. Just *there*. Tested by time, by my stubbornness, by everything. And that’s the steadiest ground I’ve ever known.
Mum, I love one woman. My wife. You didn’t understand her at first—asked, *”What do you see in each other?”* But I’ll tell you: she’s like you. She keeps our children’s first scribbles, jots down their funny sayings, wraps us in kindness. She waits for them, just as you waited for me—scuffed and struggling, but *hers*. Unconditionally.
Watching her, I fear the future less. Remembering you, I fear *myself* less. Because I was raised in love, and now I pass it on. That’s the heart of it all.
Mum, thank you. For every saved mitten, every sleepless night, every *”We’ll manage.”* For ensuring that, no matter what… I’m still your son. Always will be.