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| Parental affection |
There is a house, quiet now,
where echoes linger. It is not a place of walls but of sacrifices unseen, of
love given without demand. Parents—by blood or bond—do not carve their
compassion into stone. They weave it into mornings of quiet care, into nights
of silent watchfulness, into years of giving everything while asking for
nothing.
We, as children, move outward,
chasing the world, blind to the strength that carries us. We forget that love
does not vanish—it waits. It waits in the simplest gestures: a question of
whether we’ve eaten, a silence that listens without judgment, a presence that
never falters.
To come home is not to repay
love—it is to see it. To bow—not in submission, but in gratitude—to those who
shaped us without claim, who let us grow while never letting go.
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