A Letter To Those Who Still Have Their Parents

We always think there’s more time

Photo by Jakob Owens on Unsplash

Time is a quiet thief.

It doesn’t announce itself as it slips through the cracks of our days, taking moments we thought would last forever and leaving behind only memories.

One day, you’re sitting at the kitchen table, laughing with your parents over something trivial, and the next, you’re standing in an empty room that still smells like them, wondering how the years passed so quickly.

We always think there’s more time.

More time to ask about their childhood, their struggles, their dreams.

More time to say “thank you” for the sacrifices they made.

More time to apologise for the times we were too busy, too distracted, or too selfish to notice the love they poured into every corner of our lives.

But time doesn’t wait.

I remember my mother’s hands, the way they moved with purpose — chopping vegetables in the kitchen, folding laundry, or resting gently on my shoulder when I needed comfort.

I didn’t think much of it then.

I thought they would always be there, as constant as the rising sun.