The loneliest person

I'm not sure when my mother started feeling lonely. Was it when her four children left home one after another to study, settling down and becoming preoccupied with the joys and worries of everyday life? Or was it when we all got married and none of us had the chance to live near our parents? Or perhaps it was when, every Tet holiday, all eight children, including their spouses and five grandchildren, rushed back to visit and offer greetings, only to leave a few days later like a gust of wind, leaving the spacious house empty except for one old woman, the gentle spring breeze enough to blow a chilling emptiness through the space?

The spacious house is now occupied by only one elderly person... (Illustrative image: Internet)

After years of hard work raising four children, ensuring they all received a good education, my mother finally breathed a sigh of relief and retired to enjoy some peace and quiet. The old house was dilapidated and leaking everywhere, so my four siblings and I pooled our money to build her a new house, a two-story building. Since none of us lived nearby, and the neighborhood was mostly inhabited by migrants, we hired technicians to install ten cameras inside and outside the house to monitor her daily life, health, and safety. The cameras were connected directly to four mobile phones remotely. Throughout the day, whenever we had free time, we would open the camera management app to check on what was happening at home.

My mother's day is heartbreakingly simple: she wakes up at 4:30, sits listlessly in bed for a moment, then goes down to the kitchen to boil water, brew green tea, and cook a pot of bean porridge for breakfast. Afterward, she wanders around the garden, digging and picking out insects. At noon, she puts on her hat and leisurely goes to the market for about 15 minutes, then spends about half an hour washing, cleaning, arranging, and cooking. In the afternoon, she sits listlessly at the outdoor table and chairs, watching the sun, occasionally going into the living room to turn on the TV for some human sound…

My mother was afraid of disturbing her children and grandchildren who were busy with work and studies, so she never contacted us during the day. She only contacted us late at night, mostly waiting for our calls. Only rarely, when she missed us terribly, would she proactively dial our numbers. She's over 70 years old, accustomed to the harsh weather, so even though we tried our best to teach her, she still wasn't proficient at using video calls. Once, before calling her directly, I turned on the camera to watch, and my heart ached seeing her staring intently into the camera's "eye," as if she could see her children's faces there. She knew that "eye" allowed us to see her, but she couldn't see us. I don't know what she was thinking during those moments – those moments of intense longing for her children and grandchildren, a longing so tightly held in her eyes and heart, with no way to express it…

The children have all gone their separate ways, leaving the mother alone with her quiet meals... (Illustrative image: Internet)

I was overwhelmed with realization: we were truly ungrateful children. While Mom sat silently and alone in her house, what were we doing? My eldest brother was celebrating a successful project with his friends. My second sister was on vacation with her paternal family. My third sister was probably at home teaching the two younger children their lessons. And me, after a tiring overtime shift, looked at Mom through the camera and cried… I – a small, lonely young person in a big city, striving every day to move forward, racing against deadlines, keeping myself from being swept away by the stressful work cycle. I wanted a house, a car, a top-tier income. I didn't want to be inferior to anyone. I just wanted to go further. Perhaps in the eyes of many, at 25, I was considered a successful young person. But that night, looking into my mother's eyes, I realized I had already failed…

My mother and her loneliness gnaw at my heart. I remember her calls that I—busy with work, chatting with friends, or countless other excuses—hanged up. I imagine how that hurried, panicked beep must have struck her with such disappointment. But she never said anything. She always smiled and encouraged us, always saying she was fine. She was fine in her endless waiting, in her endless loneliness… and we, being so thoughtless, never realized it.

In a certain book, I read these lines, as if written for myself:"The loneliest people in the world are actually your parents. Their circle of communication is shrinking, their thoughts are becoming fewer and fewer, they want to understand you but can't keep up with the times. Even so, they still try to learn how to use a mobile phone to call you, how to use a computer to read news about you. You don't know how hard they've worked. Therefore, please live well, really well; please take good care of yourself, really well. So well that you don't cause your family any worry, because you are their sense of security."