He was just a small boy, barely reaching my shoulder, with a dream of becoming a doctor and eyes full of hope.

I would bend down to kiss his forehead, and he’d shy away — over there, emotions are shown sparingly. I once asked someone why, and they said:
“Children learn early to hide how they feel. They hear too often that there’s no food, so they go quiet — to make it hurt less when a mother has to say there’s nothing to eat.”

Over time, Kevin learned that a hug is shelter, and a kiss on the forehead is a blessing. Those little things gave him wings to chase his dreams.
Every time he calls me “mammy,” my heart melts. And every time I call him “son,” he stands taller with pride.

He grew up. Now he lowers his head for a kiss on the forehead.
It’s 2022, I’m wearing the same old tunic, grateful for new moments. He just graduated high school. We’re waiting for national exam results — hoping his dream of studying medicine comes true.

He once told me:
“I pray every day that you stay healthy long enough to see what a good man I’ll become.”

And every time I remember that, I tear up — out of pride, out of love.
Because he already is a good man.
My boy. My Kevin.