I never imagined there would come a day when my own family would send me away without a trace of sadness.
We were all standing together, supposedly as a family — and yet I felt it clearly. There was no love in their words. No need for me. No space.
I saw it in their eyes.
I was a burden.
Sometimes they even said it out loud.
“Spring Is Coming — We’ll Finally Send Her to the Village”
They said it casually. Almost cheerfully.
As if I weren’t a person, but an old suitcase — something you push into storage until the next season.
My grandchildren were distant.
My daughter-in-law didn’t hide her dislike.
My son was always busy, always on the road — and when he was home, he wasn’t much better.
I knew I was unwanted.
So I stayed quiet.
I swallowed my pain.
I counted the days until spring — my only hope, my small promise of freedom.
Warmth Outside, Cold Inside
That year, spring came early.
I often sat outside the apartment building, warming myself like an old sparrow. Thin. In my worn coat. With tired shoes.
I looked at the blue sky and tried to memorize its warmth — because there was none inside the house.
My family didn’t want me.
But the neighbors did.
They greeted me every day. Asked how I was. Helped me climb the five flights of stairs. The neighborhood children carried my groceries whenever they saw me walking slowly home.
Still, I Did Everything
Despite my age and my aching body, I did everything in that home.
I cooked.
I cleaned.
I washed clothes.
“You’re home all day anyway — you do it,” they said every evening.
My grandchildren barely spoke to me. And when their friends came over, I locked myself in my small room.
Once, one of those friends said to me:
“Ma’am, it’s embarrassing for you to be hanging around here.”
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t respond.
Only silence stayed with me.
Silence — and the tears I cried at night, unheard.
The Day They ‘Sent Me’
When the day came, they called a taxi — so they wouldn’t waste time with buses.
I packed a few clothes into an old bag.
Like someone who had finally understood her place.
At the train station, I walked slowly with my cane. When the train arrived, I boarded alone. No one helped me. I didn’t ask.
I sat by the window.
I looked outside with eyes that life had taught to endure without hating.
When the train started moving, I took out a wrinkled photograph from my bag.
My son.
My daughter-in-law.
My grandchildren.
Smiling.
I had only seen those smiles on paper for years.
I kissed the photo.
And put it away — my last piece of warmth.
Where I Belonged
When I stepped off at the small village station, the air smelled of earth, childhood, and life.
A young man drove me in his pickup almost to my gate.
I opened the rusty door. Walked along the damp path.
My old house was waiting.
The crooked fence.
The low roof.
The small yard.
Here… here I belonged.
Here, I was never extra.
I was born on this land.
I raised my children here.
I buried my husband here.
I buried the son I lost too early.
This was my life — the beautiful and the heavy.
One Last Evening
I opened the windows.
Lit the stove.
Sat on the bench by the window.
And I remembered.
My children once sat on that bench.
They ate at that table.
They ran barefoot across that ground — laughing, fighting, filling the house with voices.
That evening, I listened to my memories.
For a moment, I was a mother again.
Needed.
Loved.
Important.
The sun came through the window just like before. Spring was the same — warm, real, close.
And I smiled.
The Morning That Never Came
The next morning, I didn’t wake up.
I stayed where I had always dreamed of being — in my house, in my land, between walls that remembered me.
On the table lay a pile of old photographs.
On top — the wrinkled one I had kissed before leaving.
If You’re Still Here, You Still Can
While we are alive, we can do so much.
Ask for forgiveness.
Say thank you.
Say “I love you.”
Because when someone leaves — they don’t come back.
And then a stone remains in the heart, heavy for a lifetime.
Live with faith.
With truth.
Do good from the heart.
And cherish those who gave you life.
Don’t postpone it.
Because “later”… may never come.