My son phoned me on a calm afternoon, his voice gentler than I was used to.

He didn’t ask for anything or hurry through the conversation—he simply told me he loved me.

It took me by surprise. He had always been independent, the type of young man who managed everything on his own and seldom stopped to express emotions like that.

After the call ended, I remained there for a long while, going over his words again and again. There was something in his tone that lingered—not fear, not urgency, but something deeper. That evening, without giving it too much thought, I booked a flight.

I didn’t tell him I was coming.

Part of me didn’t want to turn it into something significant, and another part of me just wanted to see him—to make sure he was alright. The next day, I found myself standing outside his dorm room, my heart beating faster than it should have.

When his roommate opened the door and noticed me, his expression changed immediately, as if he hadn’t been expecting anyone—especially me. He moved aside without saying much, and I stepped in, feeling both uncertain and certain at the same time.