I came to Canada as a refugee. I went through every immigration interview, every piece of paperwork, every sleepless night. I’m finally Canadian. I can finally travel again. But while I was fighting for safety here, my life passed me by there. It’s been 20 years since I hugged my mother. My father died of cancer, and I couldn’t get to him. That’s the regret I carry every single day. I wasn’t there to hold his hand. I wasn’t there to say goodbye.

Nothing can compensate for losing a parent you never got to see one last time. Now my mother is 82. She’s getting older, and she’s asking to see me before she dies. She tells me on the phone that she’s longing for me. I’m her only son. And I’m longing for her too. Here’s what I miss:

• Her food. I’m a cook by profession, but nobody’s cooking ever tasted like hers. I’d give anything to sit at her table again, to taste the meals she made with her hands, to watch and learn the recipes she never wrote down.
• Her stories. The way she’d talk while she cooked — stories about our family, about surviving, about faith. That’s where my real wisdom came from. 
• Her presence. Just hearing her say my name. Just being in the same room. 

Why I can’t get there on my own: I’m a full-time caregiver for my autistic son. That’s my world now, and I wouldn’t trade him for anything. But it means I can’t work full-time. I can’t save. Flights overseas, visa costs, time away — it’s thousands of dollars I don’t have. I’m barely making ends meet. Saving a penny for travel feels like asking for a miracle. I’m not asking for luxury. I’m asking for a chance to hold my mother’s hand before it’s too late.