The arrival of the mandatory military information day notice, bearing my son’s name in stark, bold print, landed in my letterbox with the quiet force of a revelation. Eighteen years. Just like that, a blink in the grand scheme, yet a lifetime in the intimate landscape of parenthood.

That sense of time slipping by deepened during my parents’ recent visit. Both now navigate their mid to late seventies, and their three-week stay was a touching reminder of the ever-widening gaps between our encounters. Two years had slipped by since I last held my father close, a year since I shared a cup of tea with my mother. In that time, their familiar habits and quirks had faded from my everyday awareness. Time, like an invisible current, flows steadily on, leaving behind quiet but unmistakable marks.

It’s not just that time moves fast—it accelerates. And that realization stings a little more with each passing year. I think of the countless times I’ve been consumed by daily life, unintentionally placing those I love in the background. Now, those moments gently resurface as reminders to realign my priorities and hold tighter to the relationships that matter most.

Seeing my parents’ growing fragility has shifted something deep within me. I no longer feel like the child who depends on them. Our roles are reversing. It’s hard to witness. At first, I resisted: denial, frustration, a quiet sadness at their slower pace. But slowly, as I swallowed tears in still moments, I began to accept it. Life is teaching me patience, compassion.

And with that comes a regret. I’ve been absent during their slow aging. It’s the price I paid when I left home twenty-five years ago. Yet this, too, is part of life’s design. Children grow, leave, create their own worlds. My parents understood this, even if it brought them quiet sadness.

Now I feel that same echo as my own son leaves home. The realization didn’t arrive with drama, just a quiet absence that settled in. I’m learning to accept this new chapter. Parental love is one-directional: given freely, without expectation. My parents have always shown me that. They still worry when I come home late, and it makes me laugh. But I can already imagine having sleepless nights for my son, when I’m their age.

Still, deep down, I remain their child. I look to them for comfort, for wisdom. I want to believe they’re invincible, eternal. But they are human. And they are aging.

And yet, I feel stronger just being near them. No matter how old we get, that bond holds. It’s quiet, steady, powerful. A reminder that love—especially within family—endures, even as time carries us forward.