PART 3 — When the clock slows down
In the months that followed, a lot changed. Lucas got a new job. He didn't move back to the city. He stayed nearby. Not because he no longer had ambitions. But because he finally understood that life doesn't consist only of ambitions. Every Sunday he visited his grandmother. Sometimes he cooked. Sometimes he fixed something. Sometimes they just sat watching television together.
My mother always complained. “Don't you have anything better to do?” Lucas laughed. “No.” “Then go out with your friends.” “I'll see them on Monday.” “Go find a girlfriend.” “Grandma!” She laughed. “What?” “You're impossible.” “And yet you come every Sunday.” Then Lucas smiled. “That's because you're impossible.” I often looked at them and thought that some people only realize what love means when they get older.
When Lucas was twenty, he wanted to see the world. When he was thirty, he wanted to be successful. When he was thirty-five, all he wanted was peace. My mother was almost eighty. She wanted only one thing. That her family wouldn't seek each other out only when someone was on the verge of disappearing. One Sunday she told Lucas: “I want you to promise me something.” “What?” “When I am no longer here…” “Grandma.” “Let me finish.” He remained silent.
“When I am no longer here, I don't want you to try to live a perfect life.” He looked at her. “What should I do then?” “A real life.” “What's the difference?” She smiled. “A perfect life is a life where everything goes right.” “A real life is a life where you sometimes fall, cry, fail, love, lose, and still get up the next morning.” Lucas looked at her.
“You sound like you're saying goodbye.” “I am almost eighty.” “That doesn't mean you're going to die tomorrow.” She laughed. “No.” “But it does mean I don't have as much time left as you do.” Lucas looked away. My mother laid her hand on his arm. “That's why I want you to learn to live before you are old.” Those words stayed with him. A few weeks later, my mother fell ill.
In the beginning, it didn't seem serious. Fatigue. Dizziness. Loss of appetite. But after a hospital checkup, it became clear that her body was growing weaker and weaker. Lucas sat beside her bed. He held her hand. “You always taught me that everything will be fine.” My mother smiled. “I never said that.” “What?” “I said you're not facing it alone.” Lucas bowed his head.
“That's something different.” “Exactly.” That evening my mother asked to speak to me alone. “I don't want Lucas to be afraid.” “He's already afraid.” “Then he must learn that being afraid is also part of life.” She looked out the window. “When I was twenty, I thought eighty was very old.” “And now?” “Now eighty feels like yesterday.” I smiled through my tears.
She said: “Life goes faster than people think.” “That's why young people shouldn't wait until they have everything in order before trying to be happy.” She was quiet. “And old people shouldn't wait for someone to return before allowing themselves to be happy.” That was my mother. Always busy taking care of others. Even at her weakest moment. A few days later she was allowed to go home.
Lucas wanted to stay with her. But my mother refused. “I'm not a baby.” “I know.” “Go home.” “I am home.” She looked at him. “Then go sleep in the guest room.” “Fine.” “And don't snore.” “I don't snore.” “Yes, you do.” For the first time in days, we all laughed. But that night my mother woke up. She walked slowly to the kitchen. There she saw Lucas sleeping at the table.
His head was resting on his arms. Beside him stood a half-empty mug of coffee. My mother stood still for a moment. Then she walked over to him. She placed a blanket over his shoulders. And whispered: “My little boy.” Lucas woke up. He looked up. “Grandma?” “Go to sleep.” “What are you doing?” “I just wanted to see if you were still here.” Lucas took her hand.
“I'm not going anywhere.” My mother smiled. “I know.” The next morning there was a phone call. An old friend of my mother said they used to work together. She had found something. A box of old letters. Letters that my mother had kept for decades. She brought the box over that afternoon. My mother turned pale when she saw it. “Where did you find those?” “In my attic.” “Why did you bring them?” “Because I thought you'd want someone to read them again.” That evening my mother opened the box.
There were letters in it. From her husband. From her daughter. From Lucas when he was still a child. But at the bottom lay one envelope. Yellowed with age. Never opened. My mother stared at it. “That letter…” I looked at her. “From whom?” She said nothing. Lucas entered the room. He saw the envelope. “Grandma?” My mother held onto it. “This is something I've kept hidden for a very long time.” “Why?” “Because some truths can only be told when someone is old enough to understand them.” Lucas sat down.
My mother slid the envelope toward him. “Read it.” Lucas looked at the name on the front. His face changed. “This is from my father.” My mother nodded. “He wrote this letter right before he left.” Lucas looked at her. “Why did you never give it to me?” My mother closed her eyes. “That's why.” He opened the envelope. And began to read. After the first few lines, his hands began to tremble. Then he looked up. “Grandma…” His voice broke. “Why did nobody ever tell me this?” My mother said nothing. Because in that letter was a truth that Lucas had misunderstood his entire life.
