The clock on the wall ticks steadily, a rhythmic reminder of the minutes slipping away. Each second brings him closer to me, and yet each tick seems to echo the years that have passed since I last saw him. Five years. Five long years. An entire lifetime for a boy growing into a man.
The last time I saw him, he was just a child. Barely twelve years old, with a head full of messy hair and eyes that sparkled with curiosity. He stood in the doorway, his backpack slung over one shoulder, waving goodbye. I remember his voice—high-pitched, innocent, unbroken. He had shouted something as he ran off to play with his friends, but I can't remember the words now. I only remember the sound of his laughter, light and carefree.
Now, he's seventeen. Nearly an adult. My son, the boy I left behind, is a stranger to me.
I've missed so much. The thought weighs heavily on my chest, a tightness that refuses to ease no matter how deeply I breathe. His first day of high school—a milestone I should have been there for, standing by the gate, embarrassed but proud, taking pictures and fussing over his hair. I wonder if he was nervous. Did he look for me in the crowd? Was he disappointed when he didn't find me?
And what about his last day of primary school? Did he feel a pang of sadness, leaving behind familiar classrooms and friends he'd grown up with? Did he carry his memories of those carefree days alone, without my shoulder to lean on? These are the moments I should have shared with him, moments that should have been ours.
I missed his voice breaking, the gradual transformation from the high, childish tones to the deeper, more resonant voice of a young man. I should have been there to hear it crack mid-sentence, to tease him gently and laugh with him as he blushed. I missed the transition, the in-between phase where he would have sounded awkward, uncertain, caught between boyhood and manhood. I left behind a child, and now he returns to me as someone I no longer recognize.
I wonder if he has a girlfriend. If he's learned to navigate the confusing world of crushes, first loves, and heartbreaks without me. Who did he turn to when he needed advice? Who listened to his stories about first dates and awkward conversations? Was there someone else who filled the space that I should have occupied? I imagine him, taller now, broader in the shoulders, standing nervously at a doorstep with flowers in his hand, his heart racing as he waits for the door to open. Did he fall in love? Did he have his heart broken?
The questions swirl endlessly in my mind. What music does he listen to? What movies does he watch? Does he still play video games, or has he outgrown them? Has he discovered a passion, a dream he wants to chase? Does he like sports? Is he an artist, a musician, a writer? Who is he now, this boy who was once my whole world?
I get up and pace the room, the echo of my footsteps filling the silence. I have his room ready—the same room he left behind, but I know it's no longer his. It's a child's room, with posters of superheroes on the walls and toys neatly arranged on the shelves. I should have changed it, made it fit for the young man he's become, but I didn't know how. I don't know who he is now, what he likes, what would make him feel at home.
Five years. I missed five birthdays. Five candles added to his cake each year, each one a reminder that time was moving forward without me. Did he make a wish? Did he wish for me to come back, or did he eventually stop wishing at all?
I missed Christmases and New Year's celebrations. I missed seeing him grow taller, his features changing, maturing. I missed his voice deepening, his laughter evolving from the giggles of a child to the richer, fuller laughter of a teenager. I missed his moods, his tantrums, his sulking, and his joy. I missed watching him learn to shave, his first attempts awkward and hesitant.
I missed the moments he needed me. When life was too hard, too confusing, too overwhelming. When he felt alone or scared, did he cry for me? Did he long for my presence, my arms around him, comforting him? Or did he learn to live without me, to bury the pain, to forget?
I sit down, my hands trembling as I reach for my phone. There are pictures on there—old ones, from before. Pictures of a little boy with messy hair and bright eyes, smiling at the camera with his arms thrown around my neck. He was so small, so happy. He loved me then, trusted me without question.
Does he still love me now? Will he recognize me? Will he forgive me?
The last five years have changed me too. I look older, my face more lined, my hair flecked with gray. I've been haunted by guilt, by the weight of my absence, by the knowledge that I failed him. I've missed him every day, but I never knew how to go back, how to fix what I broke.
And now he's coming. He's on his way. Seventeen years old. Nearly a man. My son.
I don't know what to say to him. I don't know how to bridge the gap, how to find my way back to him. I don't even know if he wants me to.
The doorbell rings, sharp and sudden, cutting through the silence. My heart stops.
This is it.
I stand, my legs unsteady, my breath caught in my throat. I walk to the door, my hand hovering over the handle. I close my eyes, just for a moment, to gather myself. Then I open the door.
He stands there, tall and lean, his shoulders broad, his posture confident but hesitant. His hair is shorter than I remember, neater, more mature. His face is sharper, his jaw more defined, and his eyes—those eyes are still the same, the same shade of brown that used to light up when he laughed. But they're guarded now, cautious, older.
He looks at me, and I see the flicker of recognition, the searching look as he tries to find the man he used to know in the face before him.
"Hi, Dad." His voice is deeper, richer, unfamiliar and yet achingly familiar.
I swallow, my own voice failing me. Tears burn at the back of my eyes, and I fight to hold them back. "Hi, son."
We stand there, awkward, uncertain, a gulf of five years stretching between us. I want to reach out, to pull him into my arms, but I don't know if I have the right anymore.
He shifts his weight, his hands in his pockets, his eyes flicking past me to the house he has never seen. "Can I come in?"
I nod, stepping aside. "Of course. This is your home." The words feel heavy, laden with a promise I failed to keep.
He walks past me, his movements graceful but cautious, as if he's unsure of his place here. I watch him, memorizing every detail, every inch of the young man he's become.
I close the door and turn to find him standing in the hallway, looking at the pictures on the wall. Pictures of him as a child, grinning, carefree, loved. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against the glass, and I see the tremor in his hand.
"I remember this," he says, his voice soft. "That day at the beach."
I nod, my throat tight. "You built a sandcastle and wouldn't let the waves touch it. You stood guard for hours."
He smiles, a small, wistful smile, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of the boy I lost.
"I missed you," I whisper, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "I missed everything."
He turns to me, his eyes searching mine. There's pain there, and anger, and something else—hope, maybe, or the remnants of the love we once shared.
"I missed you too," he admits, his voice cracking just slightly, betraying the child still inside him.
In that moment, the years fall away, and I see him as he was—the little boy with messy hair and bright eyes, the boy who trusted me, who loved me unconditionally.
He's still there, beneath the layers of hurt and time and growing up. My son. My boy.
I take a step closer, my heart pounding. "I want to know you again. If you'll let me."
He looks at me, his jaw tightening, his eyes glistening. For a moment, I think he'll turn away, but then he nods, just once, his shoulders relaxing.
"Okay," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Okay."
Hope blooms in my chest, fragile but real.
I reach out, hesitantly, and this time, he doesn't pull away.
Five years. Five years lost. But maybe, just maybe, we can find our way back to each other.
Together, but only for a few short weeks before he has to return to the life he has in another country.