I know I am a man.
There will come a time when I will have to leave home.
I will have to earn. I will have responsibilities. I will have to build my career, take care of my family, make my own decisions, and become independent.
I understand that.
I don’t think there is anything wrong with going out into the world to earn for the people I love.
But there is one thing I have started believing more strongly as I grow older:
While my parents are alive, I don’t want to live too far away from them.
I don’t want to spend my entire life somewhere unfamiliar just because I convinced myself that being away was the only definition of success.
I want to work.
I want to earn.
I want to build my own life.
But I also want to come back home.
Because the older I get, the more I realize that life isn’t only about how much I can earn.
It is also about how much time I get to spend with the people I am earning for.
And time is something I cannot earn back.
I know what it feels like to be away from my parents.
When I was young, I used to live and study far away from them. I still remember those days when the holidays ended and my parents had to leave me back at school.
I remember the station.
I remember watching them leave.
And I remember crying.
I was such a crybaby back then.
Even now, I think I am still that same child somewhere inside me. I have grown older, but I haven’t stopped being emotional when it comes to my parents.
Maybe that is why those memories still stay with me.
At that age, I didn’t understand what separation really meant.
I only knew that I didn’t want my parents to leave.
I wanted them to stay.
I wanted to go back home with them.
I wanted the holidays to continue.
But as I grew older, I started understanding something painful.
Those moments don’t come back.
We keep telling ourselves that there will be another holiday.
Another birthday.
Another festival.
Another weekend.
Another chance to sit together.
Another chance to eat dinner with our parents.
And because we believe there will always be another chance, we don’t realize how valuable the present one actually is.
That’s what scares me.
I don’t want to wake up one day and realize that I spent years telling myself, “I was busy. I had responsibilities. I had to work.”
Maybe all of that will be true.
Maybe I really will have responsibilities.
But I don’t want to use my responsibilities as an excuse for losing every moment with my parents.
I know that sometimes I will have to go.
I know that sometimes my job may take me to another city.
Maybe even another country.
I may have to sit at an airport one day with my bags packed, ready to leave everything familiar behind because I have to earn.
And I know what my parents will probably do.
They will smile.
My mother might tell me to eat properly.
My father might tell me to call after I reach.
They might tell me not to worry.
They might even joke around so that I don’t feel sad.
But I know my parents.
And I have started realizing that parents don’t always say what they feel.
They may not say,
“Don’t go.”
They may not say,
“We are going to miss you.”
They may not say,
“Stay a little longer.”
Because they know I have to build my life.
So they let me go.
And I think that is one of the most silent forms of love.
They hide their sadness because they don’t want their love to become a burden on my dreams.
That’s why, when I leave, I want to be mature enough to notice those little things.
I want to look at their faces properly.
I want to understand the silence behind their smiles.
I want to hug them before I leave.
Not just a quick goodbye.
A real hug.
Because I don’t know what life has planned between that goodbye and the next time I see them.
That thought scares me.
I don’t know when I will see their faces again.
I don’t know when I’ll sit at the same dining table again.
I don’t know when I’ll hear my mother asking me whether I have eaten.
I don’t know when my father will complain about some small thing that I once found annoying.
And I don’t want to realize the value of those ordinary moments only after they become memories.
That’s why I want to live close to my parents whenever life gives me that choice.
Even if someday I have my own house, I don’t want it to be so far away that visiting my parents becomes a once-a-year plan.
I want to be close enough to go on a weekend.
Close enough to suddenly call them and say,
“I’m coming for dinner.”
I want to sit with them without needing a special occasion.
I want to relive the small things I grew up with.
I want to hear the same stories again.
I want to eat the food I’ve eaten a hundred times.
I want to sit quietly beside them sometimes without even having anything important to say.
Because I have started realizing that these are the moments that make life feel like home.
And if someday life becomes too heavy for me, I don’t want to be ashamed of going back to my parents.
I know I am a man.
I know men are expected to be strong.
We are taught to handle our problems.
We are taught to hide our tears.
We are taught to say, “I’m fine,” even when we aren’t.
But I don’t want to be that person in front of my parents.
If something hurts me, I want to be able to cry in front of them.
If I’m scared, I want to tell them.
If I fail, I want to come home.
If I don’t know what I’m doing with my life, I want to sit beside them and admit it.
Because I don’t have to prove that I am a grown man to the people who watched me grow up.
In front of my parents, I want to remain that little boy.
The same boy who cried when they left him at school.
The same boy who waited for them to come back.
The same boy who felt safe simply because his parents were around.
Maybe growing up doesn’t mean leaving that child completely behind.
Maybe growing up means carrying that child with you.
And I don’t want to be ashamed of that.
I can be strong outside.
I can fight my battles.
I can work hard.
I can earn.
I can take responsibility.
But when I come home to my parents, I want to be their son before I am anything else.
Because one day, I know there will be no more weekends.
No more phone calls.
No more festivals together.
No more dinner at the same table.
And that is the part of life I don’t want to think about, but I know I eventually have to.
So if I ever become successful, I don’t want my success to be measured only by my salary, my house, my position, or the city I live in.
I want to be able to look back and say:
I earned, but I was there.
I built my career, but I didn’t completely lose my family while building it.
I left home when I had to, but I always found my way back.
Because what is the point of spending my whole life earning for my family if I don’t have enough time left to actually live with them?
Maybe someday I’ll have enough money.
Maybe someday I’ll have a beautiful house.
Maybe someday I’ll achieve everything I thought I wanted.
But if I cannot sit beside my parents and share an ordinary dinner with them, I don’t think any of those things will feel complete.
I don’t want to wait until I lose someone to understand what their presence meant to me.
I want to understand it while they are still here.
So yes, I will go out.
I will work.
I will earn.
I will carry my responsibilities.
But if life gives me a choice, I will choose to stay close to my parents.
Because jobs can change.
Cities can change.
Money can come and go.
But my parents won’t be here forever.
And when I eventually look back at my life, I don’t think I’ll remember how many extra hours I worked.
I don’t think I’ll remember how many promotions I got.
I think I’ll remember the evenings.
The festivals.
The dinners.
The conversations.
The hugs.
The moments when I came home and my parents were still there.
And perhaps that is the kind of wealth I want.
Not just a life where I earned enough to take care of my family,
but a life where I was actually there to live it with them.
Because while my parents are still here,
I don’t want to live too far away.