Oh, it breaks my heart… MUM
Mum’s seventy-three. Small, slightly hunched, her hands always busy, her gaze a mix of weariness and warmth. She hands me a bag and gives me this guilty little smile:
—Here are some pears, Emily. They’re not the prettiest, but they’re homegrown. No chemicals. You like them, don’t you? Take them, love.
I take them. Of course I do. And the clotted cream too, because Mum always “accidentally leaves one pot” if she knows I’m stopping by.
—You’re not rushing off straight away, are you? You’ll stay for dinner a couple of times…— she adds softly, almost hopeful.
I get in the car. Start the engine.
Off I go again. Always running. Work, meetings, errands, cities, time zones, the rush… Everything’s important, everything’s urgent. I only pop in to see Mum when everything else is done—squeezed between coffee with the girls and a spa appointment, between a client pitch and a flight.
I never come empty-handed—bring her salmon, cheese, some fancy biscuits. Ask how she and Dad are doing. Half-listen, interrupt, sometimes even tease—what could possibly be happening at their age? I’m living in my own world.
Mum will inevitably say I’m “never dressed properly,” that I should wrap up my throat, that my cough is from “leaving my coat open,” and that I work too much. She’ll repeat that life is hard, yes, and she understands, and it’s fine that I don’t visit often.
And we live just twenty miles apart.
I call her nearly every day. She tells me everything, slow and detailed:
—Tomatoes went up at the market. Your sister’s struggling on the farm, managing it all alone. Had to cut the parsley again after the rain. And our cat, Whiskers, came home with a scratched eye—no idea where he’s been…
I listen. Sometimes just out of politeness.
It feels like nothing important ever happens in her life.
I get annoyed when she complains about her heart but refuses to see a doctor. What am I supposed to do? I’m not a GP! I still tell her, “Mum, please, just go! I don’t know what medicine you should take!”
And then she says it, so quiet, so different:
—Who else can I tell, love, if not you?
My fingers freeze on the phone.
Because it’s true. Because I’m hers. The only one who’s really hers.
And just like that, I drop everything. Race over. No warning. No plan. Just because I have to.
And she—like she was waiting. Already at the door with a towel. Already frying fish. Dad’s slicing melon, pulling out a bottle of homemade cider:
—Fresh. Just finished fermenting last week,— he says, proud.
I turn down the cider—driving. He nods, pours himself a glass. We laugh. Loud, unreserved.
I’m chilly. I bundle up in Mum’s thick cardigan. She immediately fusses with the oven:
—Let’s warm up the kitchen so you’re not cold.
And I’m little again. That girl who’s safe. Loved. Fed. Whose world is warmed just for her.
Everything’s delicious. Everything’s warm. Everything’s real.
Mum, my darling…
Just keep living.
Long. So long.
Because I don’t know how to live without hearing your voice on the phone.
Without your kitchen, where you always make sure I’m cosy.
Because no matter what happens in the world, I need an anchor. And that anchor has always been you.
Mum.
Just be here.
