THE WAY PARENTS LEAVE THE LIGHT ON UNTIL EVERYONE’S HOME

— Love measured in small, steady beams.

It is one of those gestures that says everything without saying anything at all. The porch light glowing faintly in the dark, the hallway bulb left on long past midnight — a quiet signal that someone is still waiting for you.

In many Nepali households, this light is not just for visibility. It is a watchtower, a promise. Parents, even when they say “Go, enjoy yourself, don’t worry about us,” still keep that one corner of the house lit. They might pretend to be asleep, but the switch is always within reach. Sometimes you can almost feel the patience in that light — the way it spills softly into the street, guiding you home without a word.

I remember returning from late tuition classes in winter, my fingers numb, the streets almost empty. Long before I reached my house, I could spot the dim yellow glow through the frost. My mother would later insist she had been asleep for hours, but the kettle would still be warm.

In cities, it’s often the single bulb over the gate; in villages, maybe a lantern or the faint glow from a solar light by the doorway. The message is the same everywhere: We know you’re not here yet. We’re keeping the way visible until you are.

It is easy to overlook how much care hides in such ordinary acts. We notice only when the light is off — when we return to a dark house and feel the absence of that silent welcome. Perhaps that’s why this ritual feels so deeply woven into home life: because it holds two promises at once — that someone is waiting, and that no matter how late you arrive, the door is still open.