Without a phone or tablet, I wrote letters to Tyler every day from the nursing home asking him to visit me. Not once did I get a response or a visit.
After two years in the nursing home, I lost any hope of anyone coming. “Please, take me home,” I would pray every night, but after two years, I tried to convince myself not to get my hopes up anymore.
One day, however, I was surprised to find out from my nurse that a man in his forties was at the counter, looking for me. “Did my son finally come to visit?” I said, getting my walker quickly before making my way to the front.
And just like that, the walls I had built around my heart started to crumble. “Oh, Tyler,” I whispered, tears streaming down my cheeks. “I missed you so much.”
He rushed forward and wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight, and for the first time in two years, I felt like I had my son back. We stayed like that for a long time, just holding onto each other, as if trying to make up for all the lost time. And in that moment, I knew that whatever had happened, we would find a way to get through it together.
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