Every time I used to call my mom back at home, she made me feel like I was not missing anything. Everything is the same as it was before.
I went back to my home after a year and a half from university. We all were driving back to my house from our farmhouse. My dad was driving the car, my uncle was sitting beside him, and I sat with my mom in the back seat.
Suddenly, it was raining cats and dogs, and the roads were not good with the rain. There was rain water everywhere, and my dad was on a mission to take us back home in two hours.
He took us from a different path; my uncle kept saying I hadn’t been here before, which way is it? and my dad was quiet. It seemed like he had been here before, or he had tried all the ways whenever he used to come back home from the farmhouse.
My mom enjoyed her own moments while sitting in the back; sometimes, she held my hand or sometimes leaned back a little. She didn’t ask why are we not reaching home, but she was more interested in the journey.
I was the only one trying to connect all individuals; sometimes, I call my dad and ask him that I have my faith in him; he can explore however he wants to. It doesn’t matter we reach home in two hours or three hours. I was the one who was trying to put my hands in my mom’s hand, sometimes kissing her on her cheeks.
This made me realize that the missing part was the children in their lives since we all siblings live by themselves. We were the one who were missing. I was the one who was missing!