My son moved in with his GF last year and hasn’t visited once, even though he’s just 10 minutes away. I still send him money, but he ignores my calls and texts. Last week, I felt lonely, so I called again and again until he finally answered, only to say, “I’m busy, Ma. Please stop calling every day. I’ll visit when I can, okay?”

It wasn’t angry or cruel, just… indifferent.

That’s what broke me most. The indifference.

I sat there with the phone still pressed to my ear even after he hung up. The silence after the beep felt louder than any scream. I wasn’t trying to be a burden. I just missed him. I missed the version of him who used to peek into the kitchen and ask what was for dinner. The boy who used to hug me when I wasn’t even looking for one.

His name is Nishan. He’s 27 now. Always had a quiet, kind streak, but once he started dating Zahra, things shifted. I don’t blame her. I don’t even know her well enough to. She seemed polite the one time they visited—nearly a year ago, right before they moved into that condo near the train tracks.

I baked kheer. She barely touched it. Nishan didn’t ask for seconds, which he always used to.

I should’ve known then.

After that, it was just silence.

I kept sending him money when I could—birthday, Diwali, a random Monday here or there. $50, $100. A little note on the transfers: Get something sweet for yourself. No reply.

I’d convinced myself he was just busy. That maybe he didn’t want to mix his new life with his old one yet. But now, hearing his voice so flat—so final—something in me gave up.

I didn’t call again for days.

Instead, I cleaned. That’s what I do when I feel like I’m disappearing. I polished the same counter four times in one morning. I folded bedsheets no one had slept in.

Then came the knock.

It was a Thursday, around 3 p.m. I was cutting guavas.

Three short knocks. Not Nishan’s.

I wiped my hands and opened the door. A woman stood there. Maybe mid-50s, tall, with sharp cheekbones and tired eyes. She had a folder in her hand and wore those stiff black flats nurses wear.

“Hi,” she said. “Are you Mrs. Dutt?”

I nodded slowly. “Who’s asking?”

She hesitated, then said, “My name is Reena. I… I met your son.”

I blinked. “Okay… is everything alright?”

“He and my daughter were in the same building. That’s how I know him. I thought you might want to hear something.”

I let her in, mostly out of curiosity, partly because her voice trembled in a way that felt familiar. She sat at my dining table and placed the folder down.

“I hope I’m not overstepping,” she said. “But I’m a mother too.”

She opened the folder and slid a photo across the table.

Nishan. Sitting on a stoop. Looking pale. And thin.

“That was taken six weeks ago,” she said. “He was living in my daughter’s building, but not with Zahra. He moved out from her place almost four months ago.”

I froze.

“What do you mean? He told me they were living together.”

Reena looked down. “That’s not what I heard. Zahra and he broke up a while back. He didn’t have anywhere else to go. He was sleeping on a mattress in the laundry room at first.”

My stomach dropped. “The laundry room? What are you saying?”

Reena hesitated again, then said, “He didn’t want anyone to know. But he lost his job back in April. Tried to hide it. Then the bills piled up. He kept telling my daughter he was fine, but eventually, someone in the building caught on and asked him to leave.”

I gripped the edge of the chair.

“You’re telling me my son is—what? Homeless?”

“He was. At least for a while. He disappeared from our building about two weeks ago.”

I couldn’t breathe.

Why didn’t he call me? Why didn’t he say anything? I would’ve moved heaven and earth to help.

Reena added, “I think he was ashamed. I’ve seen that look before. On my nephew, after he lost everything in a gambling mess. There’s a certain kind of silence people carry when they think they’ve disappointed someone who loves them.”

I wiped my eyes. “I sent him money. Small amounts. But if he needed more—”

“He probably never spent it,” she said. “My daughter said he kept saying he was ‘figuring it out.’”

I asked if she had any idea where he might be now.

She didn’t. But she left me a phone number. Her daughter’s. Said if she heard anything, they’d call.

After she left, I sat with that photo for a long time.

Then I got angry. Not at Nishan, but at myself.

I raised a child who thought he couldn’t come home.

That night, I cooked his favorite—khichdi with extra ghee—and left it in the fridge, just in case. I didn’t know where he was, but I wanted the house to smell like welcome.

For the next few days, I tried to trace him. I messaged Zahra. No reply. I even walked around his old neighborhood, asking a few corner store clerks if they’d seen him.

Nothing.

Then, five days later, another knock.

I ran to the door so fast I nearly tripped.

It wasn’t him.

But it was someone who knew him.

A boy. Maybe 20, carrying a paper bag of groceries. “Are you Nishan’s mom?” he asked.

I nodded, already shaking.

“He’s been staying in the shelter on Sundown Street,” the boy said. “He helped me with some job application stuff. Said he used to work in IT. Didn’t talk much, but he mentioned your cooking once. The way he smiled when he said ‘guava pickles’—I figured you’d want to know he’s okay.”

I nearly collapsed.

“Is he… still there?” I asked.

“Last I saw, yeah,” the boy said. “He doesn’t stay long anywhere though. Keeps to himself.”

I thanked him. Slipped him a $20 without thinking.

Then I packed a lunchbox. Two actually. Khichdi in one, guava pickle in the other. Took the next bus.

When I walked into the shelter, I spotted him immediately. Hunched over a chipped laptop. Same hoodie from the photo.

He didn’t see me right away.

I walked up slowly.

He looked up—eyes wide, like he’d seen a ghost.

“Ma?”

I nodded. “Hi beta.”

He started crying. Right there. In the middle of everyone. No shame. Just raw, muffled sobs. I hugged him so tight I thought we’d both stop breathing.

“I didn’t want you to know,” he whispered. “I messed up.”

“You didn’t mess up,” I said. “You just forgot where home was.”

We sat outside after that. He ate both boxes like he hadn’t eaten in days. Maybe he hadn’t.

He told me everything. How he’d lost his job after missing too many deadlines—part stress, part burnout. How Zahra had tried to support him at first, but they fought constantly. How he started lying, telling her he had interviews when he didn’t.

Eventually, she left.

The shame swallowed him. He couldn’t bring himself to tell me the truth. Said he’d rather suffer quietly than see pity in my eyes.

That broke me.

I held his hand and said, “Pity? No. But a slap upside the head? Maybe.”

He laughed for the first time in months.

I brought him home that night. Made him shower. Gave him clean clothes. Let him sleep in his old room.

He stayed for weeks.

Found a part-time job through Reena’s daughter, who turned out to be a social worker. Said she admired how he’d helped people at the shelter with resumes.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it gave him dignity again. A little bit of his old spark.

He cooks now, too. Terribly, but with heart.

Sometimes he burns the rice, and we end up ordering pizza. But I don’t mind.

He calls me “Ma” again, like he used to.

And just last week, he surprised me—he took me out for dosa at the same restaurant we used to go to when he was in college. Paid the bill himself.

As we were leaving, he said, “I thought I lost everything. But maybe this was the reset I needed.”

I smiled. “Life has strange ways of bringing us home.”

And maybe that’s the lesson here.

Sometimes, people disappear not because they’ve stopped caring, but because they care so deeply they’re afraid to be seen in their weakest form.

But love—real, stubborn, unconditional love—waits at the door with khichdi and guava pickles.

If you’re estranged from someone, maybe reach out. Not with anger. Just with space. And a little warmth.

Sometimes, all it takes to bring someone back is knowing they can still come home.

If this moved you even a little, give it a like and share—someone out there might need the reminder.