The room was quiet except for the ticking clock and the soft rustle of the wind brushing against the wooden window. Inside, a young woman sat on the edge of the bed, gently rubbing her round belly. Her eyes were tired, yet full of love. The baby inside her kicked softly, like he already wanted to speak, already wanted to be heard.
Her husband sat beside her, silent, staring at the wall. He wasn't angry. He wasn't sad. He was just... heavy. Something inside him was breaking, and he couldn't speak it out loud.
He was leaving tomorrow.
Not because he didn't love his family—he loved them more than anything in the world. But because life had forced his hand. The small village they lived in didn't have enough work. There were no schools where children wore uniforms and read books in English. No clinics where his child would be treated gently, no shops full of toys and new clothes.
So, he made a choice—a heavy, painful choice. He decided to go abroad. To earn. To build a future for a baby he hadn't even held in his arms yet.
"I'll come back soon," he whispered, placing his hand on her stomach. The baby kicked again, almost like it understood. "Our child will have everything we never did."
The woman smiled weakly, tears already falling. She tried to be strong. "Just come back safe. That's all I want."
He looked at her belly and made a silent promise—not to her, but to the tiny life inside. "I'll give you the world, my son. I may not be there to hold you, but I'll be the reason you smile."
The next morning, before the sun had risen, he left. A small bag in hand, a heart full of dreams, and eyes wet with the pain of goodbye.
Three Years Later
A small boy stood on his toes near the old wooden gate of their house. He wasn't tall enough to see the road, but his ears were sharp. Every car horn, every motorcycle engine—he listened with hope.
"Is he coming now, Mama?" he asked for the tenth time that morning.
His mother smiled softly. "Soon, baby. Papa's almost home."
The boy didn't remember his father's face, but he had seen photos. A man with kind eyes and a gentle smile. He kept one photo hidden under his pillow and talked to it every night.
Today, he would finally meet that man.
When the car finally came to a stop, the boy didn't wait. He ran—barefoot, breathless, heart pounding. His mother shouted from behind, telling him to wait. But he didn't listen. He ran with all the love stored in his tiny chest.
And there he was—his father.
The boy didn't need words. He recognized him from the photo, but something more—something only the heart could understand. He ran straight into his arms, grabbed the heavy bags, and tried to carry them all himself.
His father bent down, shocked, amazed, and speechless.
"You're my Papa," the boy said, proudly, tears already in his eyes. "I waited so long."
His father hugged him tight. "I know, son... I know. I'm sorry."
That whole day, the boy didn't leave his father's side. He told him everything—about his toys, the way he liked mangoes, how he could write his name now. His father listened, smiled, laughed. But behind the smile, there was guilt. Guilt for the birthdays he missed. The first word. The first step. All the moments that came once and never again.
That night, the boy slept hugging his father's arm like it was a treasure.
But happiness doesn't stay for long.
The next morning, school called. The boy had to go. And after three months, his father had to leave again.
The goodbye wasn't loud. There were no tears. Just a quiet silence.
The boy watched the car go, feeling empty again.
And in his tiny heart, a question sat like a stone:
"Why does love always leave?"