My father never looked at a clock. Not because he did not own one. Because time in our village was not measured in minutes. It was measured in the sun, in the work, in the presence of people you loved.
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| The quiet hills of our village, where time was never measured by a ticking clock. |
I remember sitting on the veranda with him. I must have been six or seven. The sun was setting behind the hills. The buffalo was chewing slowly. I was telling him something, I do not remember what. A story from school. A question about a bird. Something small.
He stopped what he was doing. He turned his whole body toward me. He looked at my face. He waited until I finished.
No phone buzzed. No screen glowed. No notification interrupted.
He listened. Completely.
I did not know then how rare that was. I thought all fathers listened like that. I thought time was something everyone had to give. Now I know different.
My Mother Noticed Before I Spoke
My mother never learned to read. She cannot dial a mobile number. She only knows how to press the green button when it lights up. But she knows everything about her children without being told.
When I was tired after walking home from school, she would have food ready before I asked. When I was sad about something, she would sit beside me and not say a word. When I was sick, she would put her hand on my forehead and know exactly what I needed.
She did not wait for me to ask. She noticed. She saw. She gave.
Her time was not her own. It belonged to the goats, the buffalo, the farm, the children, the house. But somehow, she always had a piece of it left for me.
I never heard her say "later." I never heard her say "not now." She was simply there.
My Grandmother Waited for Me to Come Home
My grandmother lived with us until she passed away. She was the heart of our home. Her hands were thin, her back bent, her steps slow. But she had more patience than anyone I have ever known.
She would sit on the charpoy under the banyan tree, shelling peas or spinning wool, and I would sit beside her. Not talking. Just being. Sometimes she would hum an old song. Sometimes she would tell me a story about a prince and a demon. Sometimes she would just look at the hills and say nothing.
She never rushed. She never checked a watch. She never said "I don't have time."
Then I moved far away. To Singapore first. Then to other countries. And every time I called, she would ask the same question. Softly. Always softly.
"When are you coming, babu?"
I would say, "Soon, grandmother. Soon."
She would say, "Dashai is coming. Will you come for Dashai?"
I would promise. I would plan. I would book tickets. The main festival. The one when the whole family gathers. The one she waited for all year.
But before I could board the plane, before I could keep my promise, she passed away back in the village. I was thousands of miles away in London. Far from the banyan tree. Far from home. Far from her.
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| Living thousands of miles away in London, caught up in the rush while my grandmother waited back home. |
She asked me "when are you coming" so many times. And I always said "soon." I never said "now."
That question still lives inside me. I hear it when I am quiet. I hear it when I hold my own sons. I hear it when I think about all the "later" I have said in my life.
She taught me what slow means. But I learned too late that slow does not mean forever.
What They Gave Me
My father gave me his attention.
My mother gave me her presence.
My grandmother gave me her patience and her waiting.
They were not rich. They had no technology. They had no books about parenting. They had no apps to remind them to be present.
But they gave me something that cannot be bought.
They gave me time.
Not the kind you measure on a clock. The kind you feel. The kind that says: you matter. You are worth stopping for. I am here.
They were not less busy than me. My father worked from dawn to dark. My mother carried water, cooked, cleaned, fed animals. My grandmother spun wool until her fingers ached.
But they were more available. Because there was nothing else. No screen. No scroll. No notification. Just the work in front of them and the child beside them.
What I Am Doing
I carry those memories of the banyan tree into my apartment in Brugge, but they often get drowned out by the glow of the screen.
Now I sit in my apartment. My phone is beside me. My laptop is open. The baby is crying. My older son is pulling my sleeve.
"Papa. Papa. Kijk."
I do not turn my whole body. I glance. I say "one minute." I keep scrolling.
He waits. Then he stops waiting. Then he walks away.
The two weeks of school holiday are over. My older son went back to school this week. The apartment feels different now. Quieter. But I notice something strange. Even when he is home, he does not pull my sleeve as much anymore. He has learned. He has adjusted.
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| Watching him quietly adjust to the world around him while I struggle to put down my screens. |
This morning, I woke up early. His body did not want to wake up.
I packed his breakfast. His fruits. His water bottle. His swimming materials for the afternoon class. Then I went to his room and gently called his name.
"Beta, wake up. School day."
He groaned. He pulled the blanket over his head. He had slept so much during the holiday, and now his body did not understand why we were rushing.
It took time. Patience. Soft words. Finally, he opened his eyes. He sat up slowly. I helped him get dressed.
Outside, the sky was grey. A light rain was falling. Bitingly cold. Even though summer has already started in Belgium, the morning felt like winter again.
I zipped his jacket. I held his hand. We walked to school through the wet cobblestones.
He held my hand tighter than usual. Maybe he was tired, or nervous. Or maybe he just needed to feel that I was there.
I walked with him. I did not look at my phone. I just walked. Just held his hand. Just was there.
It was not a big moment. Just a morning. Just a walk. Just a small hand in mine.
But it was real. And it was enough.
I have everything my parents never had. A washing machine. A phone. A laptop. Central heating. Books. Apps. A thousand tools to make life easier.
And I am giving my children less of what matters most.
Not because I am bad. Because I am distracted. Because the world has made it normal to look at screens instead of faces. Because I have learned, without noticing, that "later" is acceptable.
My father never said "later." My mother never said "not now." My grandmother asked "when are you coming" until she could not ask anymore.
And I am the one who broke the chain.
The Hard Truth
I understand my parents now. Better than I ever did when I lived with them.
I understand that my father was tired. That he worked hard. That he had worries I never saw. But he still turned his whole body toward me.
I understand that my mother had no help. That she was exhausted. That she carried the house on her shoulders. But she still noticed before I spoke.
I understand that my grandmother was old and slow and sometimes in pain. But she still sat with me under the banyan tree, humming songs, letting time pass like water. And she still waited for me to come home, even when I could not.
They gave me something I did not value then. And now I am trying to give it to my children, but I am failing. Because I have too much. Too many distractions. Too many excuses.
I did not value it then. I cannot go back. I am learning late.
What I Am Trying
I am not perfect. I will never be perfect. But I am trying.
This morning, I walked my son to school in the cold rain. I held his hand. I did not look at my phone. It was not a grand gesture. It was just a walk. But it was presence. It was time. It was me, trying to be the father my father was to me.
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| A simple morning walk, a small hand in mine, and a reminder of what it truly means to be present. |
It is not much. But it is something. It is a start.
What You Will Learn
If you are reading this, and you grew up with parents who had time, who listened, who turned their whole bodies toward you, you are lucky.
And if you have a grandmother or a parent who is still waiting for you to come home, do not wait. Do not say "soon." Go now.
Because one day, the question stops. The waiting ends. And you will carry the silence forever.
My grandmother asked me "when are you coming" until she could not ask anymore. I never want my sons to carry that same weight.
So I am trying. Not perfectly. Not all at once. But I am putting the phone down. I am turning my whole body toward them. I am saying "now" instead of "later."
You can too.
A Request
I want to hear from you.
Do you remember a moment when your parent or grandparent waited for you? Do you have someone who asks "when are you coming" and you keep saying "soon"? What will you do differently after reading this?
Share in the comments below. Your story might be exactly what someone else needs to hear today.
Because we are all in this together. All carrying the weight of "later." All learning that time is the only thing that cannot be bought back.
Closing
Tonight, after both children sleep, I will sit in the quiet. I will think about my father on the veranda, turning his whole body toward me. I will think about my mother, noticing before I spoke. I will think about my grandmother, asking "when are you coming" in her soft voice.
They raised me with time. I am trying to raise my children the same way.
Not because I am good. Because I remember what it felt like to be seen.
And because I know what it feels like to be too late.
With love,
-Bitty
03-07-2026
Next Up For You to Read:
If this story touched your heart, I highly recommend reading my deeper reflection on balancing parenthood and the digital world: One Day, My Son Will Stop Asking for My Attention.
Turn your whole body toward your child. And if someone is waiting for you, go now. Not soon. Now.
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