Rohan was always busy.
Busy with meetings.
Busy with deadlines.
Busy chasing a better life.
Whenever his phone rang
and his mother’s name appeared,
he smiled…
and said,
“I’ll call her later.”
Later never came.
His mother lived alone
in the old house
where Rohan grew up.
Every evening,
she placed two cups of tea on the table.
One for herself.
One for him.
Just in case.
“Maybe today,”
she thought.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
One Sunday,
Rohan finally decided to visit.
Not because he missed her—
but because he had time.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
The door was unlocked.
Inside,
everything looked the same.
The sofa.
The clock.
The old photo on the wall.
Except for one thing.
The chair near the window was empty.
That chair was always hers.
Rohan felt a strange heaviness.
He called out,
“Ma?”
No answer.
A neighbor stepped in.
Her eyes said everything
before her words did.
“She waited for you,”
the neighbor said softly.
“Every day.”
Rohan sat down.
On the floor.
He noticed the table.
Two cups.
One untouched.
His chest tightened.
Later,
while cleaning the room,
he found a letter.
It was written weeks ago.
“If you are reading this,
don’t feel guilty.
I was proud of you every day.
I just wanted to hear your voice a little more.”
Rohan couldn’t breathe.
All those calls.
All those “later” moments.
Gone.
That evening,
he sat on the empty chair.
The sun set slowly.
For the first time,
Rohan wasn’t busy.
He was present.
But alone.
🌟 MORAL OF THE STORY
Time feels endless—
until it isn’t.
Don’t postpone love.
Some chances don’t come back.
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