Dear Friends, I did not believe (that) I, a man almost 52, a technician to the bone, quite silent and even boring---according to my wife, would sit at the computer, not to work, but to write a letter. 18 years ago, I went to work abroad, quickly settled down and took my family with me. Shortly afterwards, my father died and my mother was left alone. She never complained, she never reproached me, she never hinted (that) there was no one to take care of her---I am the only son. We often heard each other, and she always said how good she was and how OK everything was. And only the question, "Are you coming soon?" revealed that she was, in fact, sad and very lonely. I can say with all my heart that I took every care of her, I thought of her, I did not abandon her, I did not forget her even for a moment. My biggest sin is that I didn't keep my word. I came to Bangladesh every year in August, when the whole company was on vacation, and that was our time. We visited friends and relatives, travelled to places that reminded her of my youth with my father, and as she got older. I took her to doctors and diagnostic centres. We went to the movies together, went for walks, invited guests. She pampered me with dishes and sweets I had loved since my childhood. She always told me goodbye from the entrance of the building and did not come to the airport so as not to show her tears. I kept promising her that this time I would do my best to come during the Puja festival and would not keep her waiting until the next August. That was the promise I did not keep and now I feel terribly guilty. Yes, I came in early November last year, but not to hug my mother, not to smell her famous vanilla cake, not to greet me with her Hyderabadi biriyani and yummy chicken curry, but to send her to her last road. I couldn't fit my skin from pain and helplessness. My only consolation was that my mother had died a painless death, calm, without illness, in her sleep. But this did not reduce the weight in my heart, did not calm my conscience, did not suppress my feeling that I was left alone. And, this time I came back in August, as usual. But when I stood in front of the locked door, I felt (that) grief was suffocating me. I didn't hear footsteps in the hallway, I didn't smell roasted peppers or roasted chicken…I thought the ceiling would fall on my head. It took days for me to reach for my mother's belongings, but I never dared to move anything, not even the collected newspapers. I want to say to the sons who live far away from their parents: Go often back, no matter how hard it is for you, and keep your word. Because the day is coming when we have both time and opportunities, but we do not have the most important thing---a loved one to meet us. Believe me, there is no more terrible ordeal than facing the locked door of your father's house. Your well-wisher
