they were just waiting for you

One day, you'll realize that while you were busy trying to make something of yourself, someone was quietly getting older, just hoping to see you happy. You'll be on the phone with them, distracted, half-listening while scrolling through work emails, giving one-word answers to questions about their day, and something in their voice will make you actually stop and listen—a small tiredness you hadn't noticed before, a slower way of speaking, a story repeated because they forgot they'd already told you. You'll hang up and go back to whatever deadline felt so urgent five minutes ago, and it will hit you sideways: how many of these calls have you spent distracted, how many visits cut short because you had "somewhere to be," how much of your ambition was quietly built on borrowed time you assumed would always be there. You'll think about all the milestones you were chasing—the promotion, the apartment, the version of success you thought would finally make them proud—and realize they were never actually waiting for any of that. They were just waiting for you. For your voice on the phone a little longer, for you to sit at their table without checking your watch, for evidence that you were happy, whatever that happiness looked like. You'll understand, with a lurch in your chest, that no promotion has ever bought back a missed Sunday dinner, that no amount of "I'll visit when things calm down" accounts for the years that don't wait for anyone's calendar to clear. So you'll call again, sooner than you planned to, and this time you'll actually listen.