How would you like to of the story—should it be more tragic or focus more on the celebration of his return?
He ran to her, falling to his knees and burying his face in her apron. The "servant" was home. He was no longer a laborer in a cold land; he was a son again. He realized then that while his hair had turned white and his youth had been spent in the service of others, the love of a (dear mother) was the only thing that had remained unchanged, waiting patiently for the traveler to finally rest.
He caught his reflection in the darkened window of the station office. He stopped, startled. The man looking back wasn't the vibrant youth who had left ten years ago. —today, his hair was shot through with silver, a map of the sleepless nights and back-breaking shifts he had endured under gray, distant skies.