CROSSROADS CHRONICLES

For months, I had been toying with the idea of moving to another country, carefully weighing the pros and cons, mapping out plans in my head, and navigating the emotional complexities of leaving behind everything familiar. Yet, for reasons I couldn’t quite explain, I kept this decision from my mother. It wasn’t that I feared her reaction – our relationship had never been one of deep, emotional heart-to-hearts. It was just something I told myself I would share once everything was set in stone. Once my visa was approved, then I would tell her. That was the plan.

Then life intervened in the cruelest way possible. The day after my visa was approved, my mother passed away.

I was traveling abroad when I received the news, and in an instant, the world I knew cracked apart. There was no time to process the surreal timing of it all – I booked the next flight home, running on nothing but adrenaline and shock. It wasn’t until I arrived, until I saw the grief etched into my siblings’ faces, until I stood before her, that the weight of my silence pressed down on me. I had never told her. She never knew I was going to move to another country, never knew that I had finally taken the leap toward a future I had been contemplating for so long.

Would she have been proud? Would she have been hurt? Would she have asked me to stay just a little longer?

Our relationship was always layered – sometimes tender, sometimes strained. I visited her at least once a month, sitting in the comfort of familiarity, talking about everyday things: the neighbors, the weather, the latest family gossip. But we never talked about the deeper things. Those conversations belonged to my siblings, the ones who always knew what to say, the ones who connected with her on a level I never quite reached. And so, I convinced myself that she wouldn’t have minded my decision to keep this from her. I told myself that, even in her absence, there was no room for regret.

But regret has a way of sneaking in through the quiet moments.

Now, months later, I sit alone in my new home, in a country that still feels foreign despite its growing familiarity. The days are busy with settling in, learning new routines, navigating unfamiliar streets, and adjusting to a culture that is slowly becoming my own. But at night, in the stillness, memories surface like waves crashing against the shore. I picture her in the kitchen, serving me warm white rice and fragrant, flavorful dishes. I can almost hear her voice, gently chiding me to eat more, to take care of myself, to not be so distant.

And then reality crashes in: she is gone. And she never knew.

A part of me still clings to the absurd hope that when I visit home again, she will be there, waiting. That I will walk through the door and find her fussing over a pot of soup, her eyes lighting up at the sight of me. That this time, I will sit down across from her, look her in the eyes, and say the words I never got to say:

“I moved, Mom. I live far away now, in a place where the air feels different and the seasons seem unfamiliar. I wish you could visit me someday.”

But life doesn’t grant us do-overs. It only leaves us with lessons. And this is mine: never assume there will be time. Never assume that the words left unsaid will find their way into the spaces between visits and phone calls. Speak them now, while you can. Because one day, all you may be left with is the hope that, somehow, they already knew.