Buy me a coffee?
One day, your momma won’t call you anymore.
One day, you’ll long for the sound of her voice, wishing for just one more “How are you, my child?”
One day, she won’t be there to laugh at—or scold—you for your jokes.
One day, the advice you once brushed off will be a treasure you’d give anything to hear again.
One day, you’ll step into her house, and the familiar warmth of her welcome—and that cup of coffee waiting for you—will be gone.
One day, the silence will scream louder than her words ever did.
One day, she will live only in memories.
And one day, your dad will stop being the steady rock you’ve leaned on.
One day, his stories—those he told a hundred times—will echo in your mind, but not in his voice.
One day, the strong hands that taught you to build, to fix, and to hold firm will no longer be there to guide you.
One day, the chair where he sat, reading the paper or watching the game, will be empty.
One day, you’ll look for his advice, only to find yourself asking, “What would Dad have done?”
One day, you’ll feel the absence of the man who was always your protector, your mentor, your friend.
Time flies and waits for no one.
And on those days, the void they leave will be so vast that nothing will ever quite fill it.
So love them now, hold them now, cherish them now—before “one day” becomes today.
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