Dear Amma,
I don't know if letters can reach people who are no longer here.
But tonight, I'm writing one anyway.
There is something I should have told you years ago.
I'm sorry.
Seven letters in one little word. Yet somehow, it took me a lifetime to find the courage to write it.
Do you remember our last argument?
You stood near the doorway, holding the steel tumbler you had brought for me. You asked me one simple question.
“Will you come home early tomorrow?”
I was busy. I was tired. I had a thousand things on my mind, and somehow, your question felt like one more thing demanding my time.
“I don't have time for all this, Amma,” I said.
You didn't argue.
You simply placed the tumbler on the table and walked away.
I remember that silence more clearly than I remember my own words.
The next morning, you called me.
I saw your name on my phone, but I was in the middle of something important. I thought I'd call you back in the evening.
I didn't know that some calls don't come twice.
By the time I reached home, there were people outside our door. Someone held my shoulder. Someone told me to be strong.
I don't remember what happened next.
I only remember looking at your room.
Your bed was neatly made. Your glasses were beside the pillow. Your favourite saree was hanging behind the door.
And on the table, there was a small piece of paper.
You had written a list of things to buy.
Rice. Coffee powder. Soap.
At the bottom, in your familiar handwriting, were four words:
“Things my son likes.”
You had remembered everything about me.
Even the things I had forgotten to tell you.
And I couldn't remember the last time I had asked you what you liked.
For months, I kept telling myself that I would have apologised if I'd had one more day.
One more conversation.
One more phone call.
But time doesn't return things just because we finally understand their value.
So I wrote this letter.
I folded it carefully. I placed it inside an envelope. I even wrote your name on it.
Then I stood in front of your photograph and realised I had nowhere to send it.
The letter is still with me.
Sometimes, I take it out and read it aloud.
Sometimes, I imagine you sitting beside me, listening without interrupting, just as you always did.
And sometimes, I wonder whether you already knew what these words would say.
I was wrong, Amma. Please forgive me.
I wish I had said it when you could hear me.
I wish I had put down my phone.
I wish I had come home early that evening.
I wish I had understood that the person waiting for me at home was not going to wait forever.
But wishes are strange things.
They keep the past alive without giving us the power to change it.
Tomorrow, I'll put this letter away again.
Not because I have stopped missing you.
But because I still haven't learnt how to finish saying goodbye.
Your son,
The one who always thought there would be more time.
.
.
.
🏛️ MUSEUM ARCHIVE
Exhibit No.: 001
Object: An unopened apology
Lost to: Pride, distraction, and time
Estimated value: One last conversation
Some letters are never delivered. Some apologies arrive too late. And some of the most important words in the world are the ones we keep postponing.
A question for the visitor:
If you could call one person just once more, what would you say?
— 𝓼𝓪𝓶 ∞.