He was only a ten-minute drive away, yet it felt like miles and years between us. Ever since my son moved in with his girlfriend a year ago, he hadn’t set foot in my home. I kept reaching out. I called. I texted. I sent him a little money now and then with a message like “Get something you enjoy.”
Every time, the screen showed that he’d read my message. Then nothing.
Last week that silence finally broke me. I called until he picked up.
“Ma, I’m busy. Please stop calling every day. I’ll visit when I can.”
He wasn’t rude. He wasn’t hateful. He just sounded like he had no feelings left. That numbness cut deeper than anger ever could.
After he hung up, I sat there holding the phone to my ear long after the line went dead. I kept asking myself what mistake I had made. I wasn’t trying to smother him. I simply missed him. I missed the boy who always wanted another spoonful of kheer, the boy who hugged me tight around the waist while I cooked.
His name is Nishan. Twenty-seven now. He has always been tender, thoughtful, and too caring for a harsh world.
Everything shifted after he started dating Zahra. I didn’t blame her; I barely knew her. They visited once before moving out. She was polite but detached. I offered her kheer. She barely touched it. Nishan didn’t ask for seconds either. That should have told me something.
From that moment on, he seemed farther and farther away. I continued to send money for holidays or just because. I convinced myself he was busy building his life.
But after that last phone call, something in me went quiet. I stopped calling. Instead, I put my energy into cleaning, which is what I do when loneliness pounds too loudly. I wiped down spotless counters. I folded untouched sheets. I organized drawers no one would open.
That was when I heard a knock. Three firm taps.
A woman around my age stood there. Tall, tired-looking eyes but a gentle expression.
“You’re Mrs Dutt?” she asked. “My name is Reena. I… know your son.”
My chest tightened. “Is he alright?”
She reached into her bag and pulled out a photo. Nishan was sitting on some apartment steps. He looked thin, unhealthy, lost.
“This was taken six weeks ago,” she explained. “He was staying around my daughter’s building… but he wasn’t with Zahra anymore. They broke up months ago.”
I stared at her. “He told me they were still together.”
Reena gave me a sad look. “He lost his job in April. He tried to hide it from everyone. When he couldn’t pay bills, someone asked him to leave. He slept on a mattress in the laundry room until they found out. Then he left again two weeks ago.”
“Homeless?” I whispered.
She nodded slowly. “He was ashamed. People disappear when they think they’ve failed the ones they love most.”
I told her I had been sending him money. She said Nishan refused every offer of help. Before she left she wrote down a phone number — her daughter’s — in case they saw him again.
When the door shut, I stared at his picture until I couldn’t see through the tears. Then anger arrived. Not at him. At myself. For raising a son who thought his mother’s love depended on his success. For making him feel he had to vanish if he stumbled.
That night I made khichdi with extra ghee. His favorite. The house smelled like he was about to walk in.
For days I walked his old neighborhood asking if anyone had seen him. Nothing. I even messaged Zahra. Silence.
Five days later another knock came.
A young man stood outside holding a grocery bag.
“Are you Nishan’s mom?” he asked.
I nodded.
“He’s been staying at the shelter on Sundown Street,” he told me. “He helped me with job applications. Said he used to do IT work. He talked about your cooking… especially your guava pickle. I thought you’d want to know he’s safe.”
Relief almost dropped me to the floor. I pressed some money into his hand because gratitude has to go somewhere. I packed khichdi and guava pickle, grabbed my bag, and rushed to the bus stop.
The moment I stepped inside the shelter, I saw him. Shoulders hunched over an old laptop. Wearing the hoodie I had mended a dozen times. He looked up slowly.
“Ma?”
“Hello, beta.”
He broke into tears. His whole body shook with it. I held him, letting every bit of heartbreak pour out.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he sobbed. “I messed up my life.”
“You didn’t mess up,” I told him gently. “You just forgot that you always have a place to come back to.”
We sat outside and he ate both containers in minutes. He told me everything. How the job loss crushed him. How every rejection left him more afraid. How the breakup with Zahra made him feel like he wasn’t worth anything. How shame convinced him to disappear.
“Shame?” I nudged his shoulder. “You deserve a scolding for ignoring your mother. But not pity.”
That made him laugh. A real laugh. The one I had been missing.
He came home with me that night. He showered. He slept deeply. The house finally breathed again.
Reena’s daughter, who works in social services, helped him find work helping others write resumes and applications. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was enough to start anew.
He even began cooking again. Sometimes we ended up ordering pizza because he added six times the salt. I didn’t mind. Every messy meal felt like progress.
Last weekend he took me for dosa at our usual place from his college days. He paid for us both.
“I thought I’d lost everything,” he said quietly as we walked home. “Maybe I just needed a fresh start.”
“Life knocks us down,” I told him. “But sometimes it pushes us toward the right door.”
Here is what I know now:
People don’t always go silent because they stop caring. Sometimes they are drowning in their own fear. Sometimes love exists, but shame silences it.
Love keeps waiting. It waits with a warm meal. With clean sheets. With the porch light on.
If someone you love has drifted far away, try again. Offer space. Offer patience. Offer a safe place to land.
Sometimes the smallest grace is knowing that if they knock…
you will still answer the door.