He Was Too Busy for His Mother and Took Her for Granted — Fate Made Him Pay

There is no love more patient than a mother's, and no waiting more painful than that of a parent for a child who never turns back. Richard had success, wealth, and a life he was proud of. But in his race to the top, he left something behind… his mother. When he finally looked back, it was too late.

Richard stood at the window of his corner office, gazing at the sprawling cityscape below. Skyscrapers reached toward the heavens, their glass facades reflecting the setting sun in brilliant hues of orange and gold. Forty stories up, the cars below looked like toys and people like ants, all scurrying along in their busy lives, just like Richard...

"Sir, your wife is on line two," his assistant's voice came through the intercom.

"Thank you, Melissa," Richard replied, turning from the window to pick up the phone. "Amy? Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, darling. Just confirming dinner with the Hendersons tonight at seven."

Richard rubbed his temples. "Right, of course. I'll try to wrap things up early."

"Don't rush. You know how important these clients are."

After hanging up, Richard checked his watch — an expensive Swiss timepiece Amy had given him for their anniversary.

5:30 p.m.

If he left now, he could be home in time to change before dinner. As CEO of one of the city's fastest-growing investment firms, every minute of his day was accounted for, and every meeting was scheduled weeks in advance.

It hadn't always been this way. Nine years ago, Richard had been just another ambitious young man from a rural backwater, dreaming of something more than the modest life his widowed mother had known.

His thoughts drifted to his mom, Deborah. When was the last time he called her? Months ago? He couldn't quite remember. The days blurred together in an endless parade of meetings, deals, and social obligations. He hadn't even found the time to return her calls.

"I should call her tonight after dinner," he murmured to himself, gathering his briefcase.

But even as he made the mental note, a part of him knew he would likely forget once again. Deep down, he reassured himself that even if he didn't call, his mother would be alright.

In a small village a 100 miles away, 70-year-old Deborah sat on her porch, a worn quilt wrapped around her thin shoulders despite the summer warmth. From this vantage point, she could see the dusty road that led to the main highway, the same path her son had taken nine years ago.

"Deborah darling! Lovely evening, isn't it?" called Martha, her nearest neighbor who walked by with a basket of fresh eggs.

"Indeed it is, Martha," Deborah replied with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Any word from that boy of yours?"

Deborah's gaze drifted back to the road. "Not today. He's very busy, you know. Important work in the city."

"Of course, of course. Well, I've brought you some eggs. My hens are laying more than I can use."

"That's very kind. Would you like to come in for some tea?"

"Not today, I'm afraid. Got to get these to the Wilsons before dark. You take care now."

As Martha continued on her way, Deborah's smile faded. The truth was, she couldn't remember the last time Richard had called.

The landline had been silent for weeks, and his letters that once arrived like clockwork on the first of each month had grown infrequent, then sporadic… and now seemed to have stopped altogether.

Inside the cottage, framed photographs chronicled Richard's life from infancy to adulthood.

His graduation portrait held a place of honor above the mantel, alongside a picture of him with his father. It was taken just months before Henry's heart had given out, leaving Deborah a widow and Richard fatherless at 16.

She shuffled to the small desk in the corner where she kept her diary. Opening to a fresh page, she began to write:

"June 15th

Dear diary,

No word from Richie again today. I know he's busy building his life, and I'm proud of all he's accomplished. So very proud. But the house feels emptier with each passing day. I miss his voice, his laugh. I miss knowing what's happening in his life.

I considered calling him, but I don't want to be a burden. He has his own family to worry about now... a wife, a child. What place does an old woman have in such a vibrant, modern life?

Still, I can't help but wonder if he ever thinks of me & this place where he grew up. Sometimes I imagine packing a bag & taking the bus to the city, just showing up at his door. Would he be pleased to see me? Or would I be an unwelcome reminder of the life he left behind?

Perhaps tomorrow he'll call. Perhaps. I'll wait…"

Deborah closed the diary and placed it back in the drawer. She moved to the window, gazing out at the chicken coop Henry built decades ago. The hens were fewer now.

She couldn't manage as many as she once had. But they provided eggs for her table and occasionally a bit of pocket money when she sold the surplus.

Beyond the coop lay the small pond where Richard spent countless hours as a boy, catching tadpoles and tiny fish, splashing in the cool water on hot summer days. Now it sat still and silent like a mirror reflecting the darkening sky.

"Just one call," she whispered to the empty room. "That's all I need."

Days passed. But that call never came.

In the city, Richard's life continued its relentless pace. His firm secured three major new clients, requiring late nights and weekend work. Olivia, his daughter, took her first steps and said her first words. Amy redecorated their penthouse, and threw dinner parties for clients and friends.

Through it all, thoughts of Deborah flickered at the edges of Richard's consciousness like a candle flame in a dark room, guttering but never quite extinguished.

"I should call Mom," he would think, usually at inopportune moments: during meetings, while driving between appointments, and as he drifted off to sleep.

Once, he even picked up the phone, only to be interrupted by an urgent email from a client in Tokyo. By the time the crisis was resolved, thoughts of his mother had been pushed aside once more.

When Amy asked about Deborah, Richard assured her that his mother was fine, self-sufficient, and comfortable in her familiar surroundings.

"I asked her to move to the city, but she refused," he explained, reminiscing about their last conversation. "Said she can't leave the cottage or the village… too many memories."

"We should visit her," Amy suggested.

"We will," Richard promised. "Once things settle down a bit."

But things never settled down, and the visit remained an unfulfilled intention.

The first sign that something was wrong came on a Tuesday in late autumn. Richard, finally remembering to call his mother, frowned at the automated message: "The number you have dialed is no longer in service."

"That's odd," he muttered, hanging up and immediately dialing again. The same message greeted him.

"It's probably nothing," he thought. "A telephone bill overlooked, perhaps? Mom has never been particularly good with finances."

He sent a letter, addressing it as he always had:

Deborah

Pineblossom Manor

237 Moonstone Drive

Emeraldvale

"Mom, I tried calling but your line seems to be disconnected. Everything okay? Call me when you can."

No response came.

A vague unease began to gnaw at Richard. He sent another letter, this time with a check enclosed, instructing her to get the phone reconnected.

Two weeks later, his letters returned unopened and stamped: "Return to Sender — Recipient Unavailable at This Address."

The unease crystallized into worry.

"Amy," he said one evening, eyes brimming with anxiety. "I think I need to drive out to see my mother this weekend."

"Is something wrong?"

"I'm not sure. I can't reach her. Her phone's disconnected, and my letters are coming back."

Amy's face creased with concern. "Go tomorrow. Don't wait for the weekend."

"I can't just —"

"Richard, if it were my mother, what would you tell me to do?"

He nodded, conceding the point. "You're right. I'll leave first thing in the morning."

Dawn found Richard on the highway, pushing his luxury sedan faster than was strictly prudent on the rural roads. As miles of concrete gave way to asphalt, then to gravel, the knot in his stomach tightened.

It had been years since he made this drive. The landscape seemed both familiar and foreign... like a face once known intimately, now altered by time.

He recognized the old Miller farm, now abandoned, its fields untended. The corner store where he bought penny candy as a child was now a gas station.

When he turned onto Pineblossom Manor, his hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles whitened. The road seemed narrower than he remembered, the trees taller, closing in overhead like a tunnel.

And then he saw it… the cottage. His childhood home.

From a distance, it looked the same: white clapboard siding, brown shutters, the peach tree, and the wraparound porch where his father taught him to whittle figures from soft pine.

But as he drew closer, details emerged that sent a chill through him.

The shutters hung askew. Paint peeled from the siding. The once-tidy lawn had grown wild, knee-high grass dotted with dandelions gone to seed.

The chicken coop stood empty, its door hanging open on rusted hinges. The pond had shrunk to half its former size, its waters stagnant and murky.

Richard stopped the car in the driveway, unable to move for a moment. A crow watched him from the roof of the cottage, its black eyes unblinking.

"Mom?" he called, his voice hollow in the stillness.

No answer came.

He forced himself to exit the car and walked up the cracked flagstone path to the porch steps. The third step creaked under his weight, just as it always had. Some things, at least, remained unchanged.

The door was locked. He searched for the keys and found the old brass one under a pot on the patio, just where his mom always left it when he came home from school. It turned in the lock with difficulty, as if reluctant to admit him after a long absence.

The scent hit him first... musty, stale air, dust, and something else, something forlorn. It was the smell of abandonment, of a home long uninhabited.

"Mom?" he called again. But no answer came.

He moved through the cottage like a man in a dream.

The furniture remained, draped with dust covers. The photographs still hung on the walls, though faded now, their glass cloudy with dust. In the kitchen, dishes sat in the drain board, long dried. The refrigerator, when he opened it, was empty and unplugged.

No sign of violence, no indication of a struggle. Just emptiness. Absence. And haunting silence.

Panic rose as Richard rushed to the nearest neighbor's house. Martha, older now than he remembered but still recognizable, answered his desperate knock.

"Richard? Good Lord, boy, we thought you'd never come."

"Where is she? Where's my mother?"

Martha's face fell. "We don't know, Richard. She left months ago... sold her chickens to my husband, said she needed the money for a trip. Said she had somewhere important to be."

"What? Where?"

"She wouldn't say, exactly. Just that she needed to see someone important to her." Martha hesitated. "We all assumed she was going to see you."

Richard felt the ground shift beneath his feet. "When was this?"

"October, I think. Early October."

"Five months ago??" Richard gasped.

He thanked Martha mechanically and returned to the cottage, moving now with purpose. If his mother had planned a trip, there might be clues to her destination.

He searched through the drawers and closets in her bedroom still furnished with the same four-poster bed she shared with his father. Most of her clothes remained, though he noticed gaps in the lineup of hangers that suggested she'd packed some items.

Her suitcase, the old blue one she had since he was a child... was missing.

"Mom, how long have you been gone? Where are you?" he cried.

The answer came when he opened the desk drawer. Richard found Deborah's diary — a plain brown book with "Memories" embossed in gold on the cover. He hesitated only a moment before opening it.

The entries spanned years, becoming more sporadic toward the end. He flipped to the last few pages, heart pounding as he read the words:

"September 28th

Dear diary,

It's been three months since I've heard Richie's voice.

I dream of him often... not as the successful man he's become, but as the boy he was. I see him running through the fields, climbing the oak tree by the pond, laughing as he showed me a frog he'd caught. In my dreams, he still needs me.

Martha says I'm being foolish, that young men have their own lives to lead. But is it foolish to want to matter to your only child? To want to be more than an obligation & a burden begrudgingly shouldered?

I've made a decision. I won't wait any longer for my boy to remember me. I'll go to him. I've never been to the city, never seen his home or met his wife in person. Never held my granddaughter. It's time to change that.

Tomorrow I'll speak to Martha about buying my chickens. With that money & what I've saved, I should have enough for the bus fare & a little extra. I have Richie's address from his letters.

I'm nervous but excited. Will he be surprised to see me? Pleased? Happy? I hope so."

Richard turned the page with trembling fingers and continued reading:

"October 3rd

Dear diary,

Everything is arranged. Martha's husband Pete bought the chickens & even the fish from the pond. I have my ticket for the morning bus. By this time tomorrow, I'll be in the city. I haven't told Richie I'm coming. I want it to be a surprise.

I've packed a beautiful teddy bear & the hand-sewn sweater I made for his baby. I want to bring them something special when Richie introduces me to his wife & child.

This will be the beginning of a new chapter. I can feel it."

The diary ended there. No more entries. No clue as to what had happened after Deborah arrived in the city. It lay forgotten in the drawer, left behind in her hurry to catch the morning bus... abandoned, just like the home she never returned to.

Richard closed the diary, a terrible realization dawning. His mother had come to the city… to see him. Five months ago. And he had never known.

"Where is she now? What happened to her?" Richard sobbed.

With shaking hands, he pulled out his phone and dialed Amy.

"Richard? How is she?"

"She's not here, Amy. She's been gone for months. She…" His voice broke. "She came to the city. To see us. In October."

A sharp intake of breath filled his ears. "October? But that's —"

"Five months ago. I know." He swallowed hard. "I'm coming back. I need to file a missing persons report."

The next days passed in a blur of police stations, hospitals, and homeless shelters. Richard distributed photos of his mother — the most recent he had, already years out of date — to anyone who would take them.

He hired private investigators and offered rewards for information.

Amy supported him through it all, taking care of Olivia, managing the household, and fielding calls from his office.

"We'll find her," she assured him, though as weeks passed with no leads, her voice carried less conviction.

Richard couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat.

The weight of his negligence pressed down on him like an anchor. He'd been so caught up in his own life and success that he'd allowed his mother.... the woman who had raised him alone after his father's death, who had scraped and saved to send him to college... to slip away.

"I don't deserve to find her," he confessed to Amy one night, his voice hollow. "What kind of son am I?"

"The kind who makes mistakes," she answered softly. "The kind who's trying to make them right."

"Will I find her? Will she forgive me?"

"I want you to believe in miracles, Richie."

On a Sunday, nearly two months later, Richard finally had a reason to.

He and Amy had taken Olivia to a café near the park — a small attempt at normalcy in a life that had become consumed by the search.

As they sat near the window, Olivia babbling happily in her high chair, Richard's gaze drifted to the street outside. An older woman stood at a bakery's pastry display, gazing in at the croissants and Danish pastries arranged artfully on tiered stands.

There was something familiar in the tilt of her head and the curve of her shoulders. Richard froze, coffee cup halfway to his lips.

"Richard? What is it?" Amy asked, following his gaze.

He couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. It was her... older, thinner, her clothes worn and shabby, but undeniably her.

"Mom," he whispered, then louder: "MOM!"

He was on his feet, chair scraping back, startling nearby diners. He rushed for the door, bursting onto the sidewalk.

"Mom! Mom!" he called, reaching for her.

The woman turned, an alarm flashing across her features he knew so well. But there was no recognition in her eyes, only wariness and fear.

She took a step back. "Wh-Who are you? I-I don't know you."

Richard's world tilted. "Mom, it's me... Richard," he said, his voice breaking. "Your son."

"Son? I don't have a son. I don't know who you are."

Amy appeared at his side, Olivia in her arms. "Deborah?" she said gently. "I'm Amy, Richard's wife. This is your granddaughter, Olivia."

The woman looked at them with blank incomprehension. "Deborah? I think you've mistaken me for someone else," she said, turning to leave.

"Wait," Richard pleaded. "Please, just... wait." He fumbled for his wallet and pulled out a worn photograph of him and his mother at his college graduation.

"Look. It's us."

She studied the photo, brow furrowed in concentration. For a moment, hope flared in Richard's chest. Then she shook her head.

"I'm sorry," she said, handing back the photo. "That's not me. I don't know... I don't remember anything... not even my name."

The words gutted him, leaving a hollow ache in their wake. He stared at her, searching her face for something... anything that said she was lying, that she was confused, and that she knew him deep down. But there was nothing. Just a stranger in his mother's skin.

"Please," Amy interjected. "Let us buy you a coffee, at least. Or something to eat. You look…" She stopped herself from saying "homeless," though it was obvious from Deborah's appearance that she had been living rough.

Deborah hesitated, hunger warring with suspicion. Finally, she nodded. "A coffee would be nice."

They sat in the café for over an hour. Richard barely touched his drink, watching as his mother devoured a pastry, then another. He waited until her third cup of coffee before speaking.

"Would you come with us to the hospital… just to get checked out?"

Deborah stiffened, her fingers tightening around the warm ceramic mug. "Why?"

"Because I want to help you. Please. You look... like you haven't been taking care of yourself."

Deborah's gaze flickered between him and Amy. Suspicion lingered, but exhaustion won out. Slowly, she exhaled.

"Alright," she murmured. "I'll go."

The drive to the hospital was filled with awkward silence. Richard kept glancing at the rearview mirror, watching his mother in the backseat.

She sat quietly, her fingers tracing the edge of the window as she admired the passing landscape with the wide-eyed wonder of someone seeing it for the first time.

When they arrived at the hospital, she hesitated at the entrance, her gaze flicking between Richard and Amy. But with a quiet nod, she followed them inside.

The sterile smell of antiseptic filled the air as a nurse led them down a hallway, asking Deborah a few gentle questions she struggled to answer.

The neurologist was kind but direct. "Your mother has experienced significant trauma to the brain," he explained, showing Richard and Amy the scan results. "See this area here? This scarring indicates a severe impact injury... a fall, perhaps, or an accident."

No one knew how Deborah had lost the memories that once shaped her life. There were no records or witnesses... only the cruel hand of fate that wiped away everything she had been. A puzzle with missing pieces, one only she could solve... if she ever remembered.

"Will she recover?" Richard asked, his voice small and nervous.

"Memory loss of this type is complex. Some patients recover fully. Others partially. And some..." The doctor's hesitation spoke volumes.

"Some never remember," Amy finished for him.

"That's correct. However, there is always hope. Familiar surroundings, photographs, music... these can sometimes trigger memories. The brain is remarkably resilient."

Richard nodded mechanically, too numb to feel the full weight of grief. "What happens now?"

"She'll need care and support. Rehabilitation. It's a long road, Richard."

Amy squeezed his hand. "We'll take her home with us."

Twilight painted the hospital room in shades of blue and purple. Deborah sat on the edge of the bed, her few belongings packed in a small bag the hospital had provided. She looked small and diminished, like a stranger wearing his mother's face.

"Ready to go?" Richard asked gently.

She nodded, her eyes wary. "You're sure about this? Taking in someone you don't even know? I'm not your mother."

"I know you," he said simply. "Even if you don't remember me."

In the car, as Amy drove them home, Richard watched his mother gaze out at the city lights with childlike wonder.

"Have I been here before?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered, throat tight. "You came to find something... precious."

"And did I find it?"

Richard's eyes burned with unshed tears. "No. But I found you. Finally."

That night, after settling Deborah in the guest room that would now be hers, Richard stood at the window of his study, looking out at the same cityscape he observed so many times before. The buildings still reached for the sky, the cars still moved below like toys, and the people looked like ants.

But everything had changed.

Amy entered quietly, wrapping her arms around him from behind. "She's asleep."

"She looks so lost, Amy. So fragile."

"She'll find her way back. We'll help her."

Richard turned in his wife's embrace. "What if she doesn't? What if she never remembers me?"

"Then you'll build new memories together. You'll be the son she doesn't remember having, but has anyway."

Later, after Amy had gone to bed, Richard sat alone, his mother's diary open before him. He read through the entries spanning years — birthdays he'd forgotten, Christmases he'd missed, and everyday loneliness he'd never bothered to imagine.

In the quiet of night, he made a promise... not just to the mother who had lost her memories, but to the one who had written those diary entries, who had waited by the phone, and who had finally given up waiting and set out to find him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to the empty room. "I'm so sorry I took you for granted. That I assumed you would always be there, waiting, whenever I found time to remember you existed."

Richard realized the most precious things in life aren't possessions or achievements. They're the connections we forge with those who love us... connections that, once broken, may never be fully restored. We take for granted the people who matter most, assuming they'll always be there, until one day they aren't.

But there was hope. There was always hope. His mother was home now, under his roof. Whether her memories returned or not, he would spend the rest of his life trying to be worthy of her love... the love he so carelessly disregarded.

Tomorrow, he would begin again. They would begin again, together. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough.

Here's another story: On Arnold's 93rd birthday, he longed for his children's laughter to fill the house one last time. The table was set, the candles flickered, and he waited. Hours passed in silence... until a knock came. But it wasn't them.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided "as is," and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.