Sixteen years had passed since Timur left his native village, slamming the gate of his father’s house behind him.
He was a young man back then—twenty years old, with a suitcase in hand and pain in his chest.
All these years, his mother wrote to him: at first, often, every week, then once a month… over time, the letters became fewer.
Meanwhile, he became wealthy.
The capital city welcomed him without questions—business, money, expensive cars, dinners at trendy restaurants.
But his heart remained there—in the distant village, where fresh bread baked in the oven, where the creek murmured, where she lived—his mother, Rania.
He hadn’t seen her once in all these years. He didn’t call. He didn’t even congratulate her on holidays.
Shame?
He felt it painfully.
But he couldn’t find the strength to return. Then it seemed it was too late— or so he thought.
And then, one day, at the beginning of spring, he finally decided. He sat in his Lexus, put gifts in the trunk—medicine, money, a cashmere scarf for his mother.
He wanted to ask for forgiveness.
To hug her.
Just kneeling down and saying, “Forgive me.”
The journey felt endless. Entering the village, he could barely recognize the street—new houses, asphalt roads, unfamiliar faces. Only one house remained the same, old and dilapidated— as if it had been waiting.
Timur got out of the car.
His heart was beating fast, anxiously. He walked slowly forward.
And then he froze.
By the gate stood a woman.
Young. In a light dress to the floor, with loose hair, holding a wooden bucket.
She looked calmly, smiling slightly. And then—her eyes. Familiar.
Like his mother’s.
He lost his words. He just stood there, unable to say anything.
“Who are you looking for?” she asked softly, tilting her head slightly.
“I…” he swallowed. “I’m looking for Rania.
Is this her house?”
The woman lowered her gaze.
“It was. She passed away a year ago. Are you Timur?”
He nodded.
His voice wouldn’t obey.
“I’m Sabina, your niece. Saida’s daughter. Mom left two years ago, and grandmother… waited for you till the very end.
Every evening, she came to the gate. Believe it or not, but she said, ‘My son will come.’”
Timur closed his eyes.
“She left this for you,” Sabina took out a neatly folded sheet of paper from her pocket. “It was under her pillow.
‘For my Timur, if he ever comes back.’”
He took the letter with trembling hands. Unfolded it.
“Son. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you back then.
Sorry I didn’t hug you tighter. I prayed for you every day. I love you.
I’m waiting. Mom.”
Timur dropped to the ground. No drama, no pride.
Just—he cried…
Sabina sat beside him in silence—the kind of silence only shared by those who understand its weight and timing.
“And the house?” he finally asked.
“Grandma left it to us both. She said, ‘He will have a roof, and so will you. And maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll become family.’”
That was the moment Timur, after sixteen long years, held someone close.
Desperately. Honestly. Sabina leaned into him as if she’d always known the comfort of his presence.
And something inside him—something buried for years—stirred and came alive again.
The next day, he didn’t return to his usual life. No calls. No deadlines.
No suit. Just him at the gate—where someone had waited for so long.
Three days passed. He remained in his mother’s house.
He ignored his phone. He spent time on the old bench under the apricot tree, watching the sky, breathing in the dust he once despised. Now, it smelled like memories—like healing.
