The Return of a Mother
“Good afternoon, my boy!”
“Hello, Grandma! How are you doing?” Benedikt greeted her.
A strong twenty-five-year-old man, with red cheeks stung by the cold, he stomped into the hallway of the old apartment building in a snowy neighborhood of Leipzig.
His white-haired grandmother, a colorful scarf carefully tied around her head, lifted her arms when she saw her grandson standing in the doorway, loaded with grocery bags.
“Benni, my boy, what am I supposed to do with all this? You were here just yesterday! I haven’t even finished everything you brought last time!”
Benedikt smiled. His warm, deep voice filled the tiny apartment as he looked at her affectionately.
“Grandma, just take it. Don’t argue—you’re so thin, just skin and bones! And here are your medicines too.”
He pulled a small package with a pharmacy logo from one of the bags.
His grandmother sniffed, touched.
“Thank you, Benni. What would I do without you? Come in, my boy. But I have to warn you—we have a visitor.”
“A visitor?” Benedikt raised his eyebrows and walked toward the kitchen with a curious smile.
A woman rose slowly from the table.
Her face was pale, with delicate wrinkles and dark circles beneath her eyes. She wore old but carefully kept clothes. Something in her gaze caught Benedikt’s attention—a shadow of familiarity that made his heart start beating faster.
“Hello, my son,” the woman whispered, stretching out her hands toward him as if expecting him to fall into her arms.
Benni stepped back, stunned, and looked at his grandmother.
The old woman stood aside, wiping tears from her cheeks with her fragile hand.
“Yes, Benni,” she said quietly. “This is your mother. She came to talk to you.”
Benedikt froze.
Could this really be his mother?
The mother he had cried out for as a child in the night.
The mother he could never truly remember.
The mother who had never been there during illness, sadness, or joy.
He slowly came back to himself and turned to his grandmother.
“Grandma… I’m sorry. I have to go. I’ll come back later. I’m sorry—I can’t stay.”
He kissed her cold, tear-wet cheek and left.
Benni walked through the snow-covered streets of Leipzig, streets he knew so well he could walk them blindly.
How many times had he walked here since childhood—always without her, the most important person in most people’s lives?
Kindergarten. School. University.
Always without a mother.
He knew her only from a photograph his constantly drunk father used to stare at, whispering:
“She’ll come back. I’m sure she will.”
But she never came.
And eventually his father died. His heart simply gave out.
Benedikt remembered him well—his bluish body stretched out on the sofa, holding her photograph in one hand and a half-empty bottle in the other.
The only person who truly needed him was Grandma Irmgard—his father’s mother.
For him, she became everything: father, mother, and grandmother.
The authorities once contacted his mother after the tragedy. They offered to send the boy to live with her.
Her answer had been brief:
“I can’t. My family situation doesn’t allow it. Send him to an orphanage.”
But Grandma Irmgard refused to let that happen. She fought for custody of her grandson and raised him alone.
Benedikt remembered days when breakfast, lunch, and dinner consisted of nothing but thin soup.
But there was always soup.
And Grandma always tried to put a small piece of meat in his bowl.
Now that Benedikt was grown, educated, and successful thanks to that small, fragile woman, he tried to repay her with care, love, and attention.
His mother had never helped.
Not even a birthday greeting.
Not once had she asked how her son was doing.
And now she had suddenly appeared.
But why?
Why had she come now?
“Benni, why are you so pale? You look like you have a fever,” his wife Marianne asked that evening.
“Yes, Papa! Why don’t you have a face today?” little Frieda repeated, imitating her mother.
Benni lifted his daughter high into the air and hugged the small warm miracle tightly.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. Go play.”
He wanted to talk to Marianne—to lighten his heart.
“Marianne… my mother appeared today,” he said quietly at the table. “I went to Grandma’s and there she was, drinking tea as if nothing had happened.”
Marianne slowly sat down.
“How did she find you?”
“Grandma’s address never changed. I couldn’t talk to her. I ran away the moment I realized who she was.”
“Benni… maybe you should at least listen to her,” Marianne said gently. “I can’t imagine what must happen to a woman for her to forget her child for twenty-five years. Maybe she was in prison… or something else terrible.”
“I don’t know, Marianne,” he sighed. “I can’t understand her. And I can’t forgive her.”
The next day Benni visited Grandma again.
“Benni,” she said softly, “you should listen to your mother. She has much to apologize for. Believe me, she suffers deeply. I’m old—I might die soon. And she will always be your mother.”
She handed him a small piece of paper.
“Here is her address… if you decide to visit.”
“I don’t have a mother,” Benni said bitterly. “You were everything to me.”
Still, he took the paper and put it in his pocket.
Weeks passed.
He kept touching the folded paper in his pocket, unfolding it, then putting it back again.
Finally, one evening after work, he stood in front of a worn apartment door in a damp hallway that smelled of cats.
He rang the bell.
The door opened immediately.
“My son!” the woman cried.
She stood there in a faded robe, messy hair, and socks. The smell of cabbage and dampness drifted out.
“Good evening,” Benedikt said, unable to say the word Mom. “I decided to hear you out. I want to understand. Why did you come?”
“I want nothing from you,” she said quietly. “I only wanted to talk… and ask for forgiveness. I don’t have much time left. My illness will take me soon. Perhaps it’s the punishment for my sins.”
Benedikt’s heart tightened with pity.
“Are you sick?”
“Yes. But that doesn’t matter now. Come in.”
Sitting in her tiny kitchen, he listened.
“I was in love back then,” she said through tears. “Completely mad with love. If Georg had told me to kill someone, I would have done it.”
Georg had demanded that she forget her past—including her son.
“He didn’t want another man’s child.”
She had obeyed.
They had a daughter together, Lotte. For years everything seemed perfect.
Then Georg died.
Debt was revealed. The house was sold. Everything collapsed.
“Lotte moved to Italy with her husband,” the woman said quietly. “She doesn’t need me. She’s ashamed of her poor mother.”
Silence filled the kitchen.
Finally Benedikt stood.
“I will try to forgive you,” he said slowly. “It’s difficult. But I will try.”
When he returned home, Marianne met him at the door.
“Where have you been so long?”
“I visited her,” he said quietly.
“You went to your mother?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “I feel pity.”
Marianne hugged him tightly.
“You’re a good man, Benni. I knew you wouldn’t abandon her.”
“I’ve forgiven her,” he said slowly. “But I still can’t call her Mom.”
“Forgiveness is strength,” Marianne whispered. “And you are strong.”
