He was all grown up and was determined on moving forward. And as a mother, I joyed at his sheer determination, though my heart felt heavy at the thought of letting him go.

The day he was to leave for the US came quick. I felt like we were parting ways and that our next meet would only be years from today—hopefully. He promised to come back after he had completed his studies, or that he’d try and invite us there if he planned on settling in. I was not worried about that though. What concerned me more was how a boy, who had spent his whole life counting on his mother to do almost all of his chores, would manage living all by himself.

After dropping him off at the airport and exchanging our last goodbyes, his father and I got back home. Every corner of our now empty house reminded us of him. Weeks, months and, eventually, years passed and we gradually got used to life without his presence. And with time, the frequency of his regular calls declined. He would still email though—and also send presents at times. But he never let out the words that I had been yearning to hear: “Mamu, I want to come back home.”

A few years after he had left, I started suffering from chronic stomach aches. Once started, my abdominal region would go on hurting for days. I underwent various tests for proper diagnosis and tried many treatments. I felt that I was growing weaker by the day. I would sometimes get dizzy and would pass out. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. The doctors were not willing to come to a conclusion without confirming their doubts.

Everybody at home acted as if nothing was wrong. When I asked them about what the doctor had to say, they would simply reply by saying that it was nothing to worry about. After a few days, I discovered my relatives silently crying behind locked doors. Out of curiosity, I eavesdropped on their conversation. My heart suddenly felt heavy, I lost balance and fell down upon hearing that I had been diagnosed with cancer. It wasn’t until the next morning that I finally opened my eyes to people staring down at me in concern. I was slipping away and all they could do was sympathise.

Everybody in the house had gathered—everybody but my son. Hadn’t the news of my health gotten to him? Didn’t he want to come and meet this hapless lady before her demise? Why wasn’t he here yet?

Weeks went by and he still hadn’t shown up. To my dismay, he hadn’t even called. My eyes were fixed to the door—ever searching for that familiar figure. Just as I had seen him grow from a toddler to a boy and into an adolescent, I ached to see him as an independent adult. I cried and waited for him. As a child, his dreams had always been mine. But it now seemed that his priorities had changed. I longed to see him again, but maybe he didn’t anymore.

My breathing had now grown heavy. I pondered for hours at how long it would be before I could finally meet him. I would have waited all my life, but circumstances weren’t really by my side.

Didn’t he miss me? It had now been almost two month since I was bedridden. I had lost my appetite and was unable to stand properly. Hadn’t word gotten to him? Had his life there become more important than a dying mother? I wanted to at least tell him that I loved him.

—-

This is the story of one of the many mothers who mustered up enough courage to send their wards to foreign lands for the sake of a better future. So many like her in Nepal wait for a daughter or a son to come back home. I pray to god that her last wish is fulfilled.

Dahal is a high school graduate from Himalayan Whitehouse International College