14/10/2025
When I first moved out, I called my parents every Sunday.
Same time. Same number.
Mom would answer on the second ring, already smiling through her voice.
Dad would be in the background, shouting, “Tell him the mower’s finally working!”
It became our thing — Sunday afternoons, thirty minutes of catching up.
They’d ask if I was eating well.
I’d tell them about work, the apartment, the weather.
Small things. Nothing life-changing.
But then life got busy.
One Sunday became every other.
Then once a month.
Then — only when something big happened.
Mom never complained.
She just said, “We know you’re busy, sweetheart. Just make sure you’re happy.”
And I always said, “I’ll call soon.”
But “soon” stretched further and further, like a rubber band waiting to snap.
Then, one morning, I got a voicemail from Dad.
Just his voice, quiet, unsure.
“Hey, kiddo. Haven’t heard from you in a while. Your mom made lasagna tonight. Thought of you. No rush — just… we miss your voice.”
That message broke me.
I called right back, but they were asleep.
The next morning, Mom answered — cheerful, pretending nothing had changed.
But her voice caught when she said, “Your dad was so happy to hear the phone ring last night. He thought it was you.”
That night, I decided something — no matter how busy I got, I would never let them wonder if I remembered them.
So I called again. And again. Every Sunday.
Sometimes for an hour, sometimes for five minutes.
Even when there was nothing to say — I’d just listen.
To Mom’s stories about her garden.
To Dad complaining about the price of gas.
To the background hum of their life — the clatter of dishes, the bark of the neighbor’s dog, the laughter that still felt like home.
And you know what?
The more I called, the less I needed a reason to.
It wasn’t an obligation anymore — it was a rhythm.
A thread that kept us connected across miles and time.
Last Sunday, Dad said something that stopped me.
“You know, son, when you were a kid, you’d call for me from the backyard just to show me a bug or a rock you found.
Now, I wait for your call on Sundays the same way — not because I need anything… but because it means you’re still there.”
I couldn’t speak for a moment.
All I could do was smile through tears.
Because he was right — sometimes, love isn’t about what you say.
It’s just about being there, even from far away.
💡 The Lesson:
You don’t need a special occasion to call home.
Your parents don’t need grand gestures — they just need your voice, your time, your presence.
Because one day, their phone won’t ring anymore.
And you’ll wish for just one more Sunday.
So call them.
Tell them about your day.
Ask about theirs.
Because love doesn’t keep score — it just keeps waiting for the next ring. ❤️
