Through the Screen

When I was small, my mother’s absence had a shape. It was the outline of her slippers by the door, the empty seat at dinner, the way her pillow stayed fluffed but untouched. She worked far away, in another city, sometimes even in another country, chasing opportunity with tired eyes and a heart that always beat in my direction.

Evenings were the hardest. I would sit on the couch with the phone balanced on my knees, waiting for her call. And when the screen lit up with her face—framed by hotel wallpaper or the pale light of a break room—I would smile so wide it hurt.

“Hi, my darling,” she’d say, her voice warm but tinny through the speaker. “Did you eat? Did you sleep well?”

I always said yes, though sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes I’d nod, trying not to cry, because I knew she was doing this for us. But oh, how I missed her. I missed the way her fingers brushed through my hair as I fell asleep. I missed her scent—lavender and something faintly like coffee. She loved coffee, the coffee I made. I missed the weight of her arms around me, the way she hummed while folding laundry, as if even chores were a lullaby.

I would press my face to the screen, as if the glass could soften and let me through. She’d laugh gently when I did that.

“I’ll be home soon,” she promised.

“Promise promise?” I’d whisper.

“Promise promise,” she’d say, always with a smile that tried to hide the ache in her eyes. I knew if i cried she would get weak. So I didn’t. She’s strong and so am I , her son.

Sometimes she’d show me the sky from wherever she was. “Look, same moon,” she’d say. “So we’re not really that far.”

I’d look out my window and search for it, and for a few seconds, we shared the same light. It wasn’t the same as holding her, but it helped me sleep.

Years passed like that—me growing up through pixels, her loving me across miles. The ache never left, not really. It just changed shape. But the day she came home for good, I ran into her arms so hard she almost fell. Ofcourse she would , I had grown afterall. Grown enough to look after her now.

She laughed, and then cried, and I held her tighter than I ever had.

Because the screen had never been enough.

Not for a love as real as hers.