There comes a time when you start noticing things you never saw before. Not because they didn’t exist, but because you just never bothered to really look. Suddenly, time doesn’t show up in the obvious places—like birthdays or the changing seasons. It sneaks in through your parents’ faces. It’s slow, barely there at first, like the way evening light slips across old walls. One day, you catch a glimpse of your mom and realize she’s got new lines near her eyes. Or you hear your dad say your name, and you notice his voice isn’t as strong—softer now, maybe even a little tired. That’s when it hits you. Time’s been working on them too.
As kids, we thought our parents would last forever. They made everything happen, had all the answers, fixed every little mess. No matter what, they stood tall. Strong, steady, patient—always there. In a world that never stopped changing, they were the ones who didn’t. But life doesn’t let anything stand still. Even the constants start to bend, whether we like it or not. It doesn’t hit all at once. It creeps in, bit by bit, and you barely notice until something feels different. Maybe you come home after months away and the house feels smaller, quieter. Everything’s familiar—the same walls, the same jokes—but the air’s changed. Your parents move slower. They ask the same question twice, talk more about old times than what’s next. And when they hug you, it lasts a little longer.
Maybe you just thought that you were tired. Maybe you just thought that you were busy. But the truth is that inside the chest there is still this sting, the feeling that they change, and you are powerless. That’s how it happens that your memories suddenly become different. The fingers that helped you to tie the shoes are now shaking while holding a cup. The voices that were yelling at you because you came home late are now asking when you’ll be back. The people who used to know everything now look to you for the answers. Basically, the time changes the story while you are busy growing up. And it hurts—not in the big dramatic ways, but in the smaller moments. Like when your father is sitting silently after the meal, deeply thinking. Or your mother says that she is forgetting more and more. Or you witness that their world has become very small and they have only their habits to find comfort in. You would like to be able to put a stop sign there, so these small, everyday things would not be gone.
It reminds me of the film Piku—a story about a daughter and her aging father. There aren’t any sweeping tragedies or grand gestures, just the simple, stubborn truth of love. The kind that lives in everyday squabbles, small kindnesses, in showing up even when it’s hard. There’s a scene where the father drives his daughter to frustration, yet she never walks away. Not because she’s supposed to, but because she gets it. Watching Piku is like looking in a mirror. The film nails that tricky mix of frustration and affection, duty and love. It’s not just our parents who grow older—so do we, because every year, we start to see them with new eyes. As we get older, something shifts. Suddenly, our parents aren’t superheroes anymore—they’re just people. People with dreams that didn’t work out, fears they never talked about, sacrifices we never saw. You start to notice the quiet strength it took to raise you: all those sleepless nights, silent tears, and the patience that never seemed to run out. And then it hits you, sharp and deep—you’ll never really be able to pay them back. Not because you don’t want to, but because love like theirs was never meant to be repaid.
That’s when a soft, persistent guilt begins to sneak in. Life gets busy. Work, school, friends, plans—the usual stuff. Your parents don’t complain. They wait for your call, light up when you finally visit, ask about your life and really listen. But if you look closer, their smiles have something tucked behind them. Not disappointment, exactly—more like longing. Longing for time. Time with you, time before age, time before everything changed. Time reshapes everything, but it seems to change them the most. The hands that once held you steady now reach out for yours. The voices that taught you how to speak sometimes forget a word. They still try to act strong, because that’s how they’ve always been. You can see the truth in their tired eyes, in the way they avoid lifting heavy things, in the soft sighs when they think you’re not listening.
You start to see that love looks different now. It’s not about gifts or big gestures. It’s about being there. Sitting together, even if nobody’s talking. Letting them tell the same story for the tenth time. Laughing at their offbeat jokes. It’s the little things—refilling a glass of water, helping them remember, noticing what they need without being asked. That’s what they did for us, day in and day out: loved us quietly, in the details, every single day.
When time leaves its mark on our parents, it changes how we see everything. The stuff we once obsessed over—deadlines, arguments, ambitions—starts to shrink. What really matters has been right in front of us all along… our parents growing older, right before our eyes. And instead of dreading it, we start to honor it. Aging isn’t just losing something. It’s love, written across the years. Every wrinkle, every gray hair, every gentle laugh line—they’re proof of a life well lived, for us.
One day, it hits us that their voices will stay with us, not just in photos or videos, but in the way we do things. Maybe you fold a blanket just like your mom did. Maybe you hum while you cook, the way your dad always did. That’s how they live on—in us, quietly, every day.
So maybe that’s what time is really doing. Teaching us how to love better. To slow down, listen more, be softer with the people who always showed us kindness. Time pushes us to say “I love you” before it’s too late, to forgive, to thank, to stick around. And someday, we’ll stand where they stand now. All the things they never said—the patience, the worry, the hope, the endless love behind every scolding and every smile—we’ll finally get it. When time touches our parents, it doesn’t actually take them from us. It just passes their love on, asking us to keep it alive in what we do, how we care, and how we remember.
In the end the truth is, when time is hitting our parents, it’s also hitting us. It makes us remember that love isn’t measured by years but rather by moments. The laughter that carries on for a long time, the love that stays even if they’re not here, the influence of their being on the person that we become.