It was shaping up to be a completely ordinary afternoon. The morning had passed in a familiar, almost imperceptible routine. I was busy with daily household chores, the washing machine was running, and the sunlight filtered softly through the living room windows. The silence in the house was comfortable, the kind of silence you only experience when the children are grown and have left home. Nothing suggested that this day would unfold differently from previous ones, until my son called and said something he rarely said.
We spoke quite often, often with hasty phone calls between classes or a quick text on the weekend, but this conversation had a different tone from the first second. He didn't ask me for help with his studies, he didn't mention any financial or practical problems, and he didn't even seem angry or frustrated by the frenzy of university life. There was no panic, no rush. The line was surprisingly clear, allowing me to catch every detail of his voice. He paused, a breath that lasted a little longer than usual due to the hiss of the phone line, and said softly, "I love you." That was it. No "see you later," no "talk to you soon."
The connection dropped shortly after, but the way he said it stayed with me long after the conversation. It almost felt like time had stopped in the kitchen. I set the phone down on the counter, but his words hung in the air. I looked at the clock on the wall, watched the second hand tick, and tried to decipher the emotion in his voice. It wasn't dramatic or urgent, there wasn't an immediate crisis behind it, but it was profoundly different, like a silent signal that, as a mother, I absolutely couldn't ignore. I sat at the kitchen table, listening to his voice again in my head, and wondered endlessly why that simple moment seemed so important. I looked outside, at the leaves gently moving in the wind. It was a kind of primal instinct awakening inside me, a visceral feeling that told me that simply listening wasn't enough...
continue on the next pageFor the rest of the afternoon, I wandered around the house like a ghost. I'd start tasks and then abandon them halfway, my thoughts constantly returning to that long sigh on the other end of the phone. That evening, anxiety had completely overwhelmed me, and without even thinking twice, I made a decision: I booked a flight to visit him the next morning. I entered my details on the laptop screen, my hands shaking slightly. I didn't tell him I was coming. I knew his personality; if I'd called, he'd have reassured me that everything was fine and that I didn't have to worry about anything. I absolutely wanted to avoid making him feel like a burden. I didn't want to give him the impression that something was wrong with me, or inadvertently transform a simple, tender moment into something burdensome or oppressive. It wasn't about demanding answers, but about being close to him. I packed my suitcase in a few minutes, driven by an invisible need. That night I slept very little, staring at the ceiling in the dark bedroom, waiting for the alarm to finally give me permission to leave.
The journey began at the crack of dawn, before the sun had even risen. The cold morning air hit my face as I climbed into the taxi. The flight and the ride to campus flew by. I stared at the clouds below me, completely losing track of time, my thoughts focused solely on him. I absolutely had to see him, even if only for a moment, see him with my own eyes and know for certain that everything was okay. As the taxi dropped me off in front of his building, I took a deep breath. The campus was buzzing with life; young people walked by laughing, laden with backpacks. The next day, I found myself in the dimly lit hallway outside his dorm room, suddenly much more nervous than I'd expected. I could hear muffled voices and the bass of a radio coming from another room. My hand hesitated for a moment before knocking on the wood. Would he be angry? Would I have overstepped his bounds? When the door opened, his roommate seemed surprised to see me, almost as if he knew my unexpected visit meant more than I'd let on with my friendly smile. He had a dishcloth in his hand and looked from me to the hallway, as if assessing the situation. He looked at me inquiringly, noticed the concern in my eyes, and then nodded slowly.
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