To the Point of Tears… MUM
Mum is seventy-three. Small, slightly stooped, her hands forever busy, her gaze a mix of weariness and warmth. She hands me a bag, offering a guilty smile.
— Here are some pears, Emma. They’re not the prettiest, but they’re homegrown. No chemicals. You do like them, don’t you? Take them, please.
I take them. Of course I do. And the clotted cream too, because Mum always “accidentally leaves a pot behind” if she knows I’ll drop by.
— You’re not leaving straight away, are you? You’ll stay for supper once or twice…— she adds quietly, almost hopefully.
I get into the car. Start the engine.
Off I go again, always rushing. Work, meetings, errands, cities, time zones, endless hurry… Everything’s important, everything’s urgent. I visit Mum only when everything else is done—between coffee with friends and a spa appointment, between a presentation and a flight.
I never come empty-handed—I bring her smoked salmon, Stilton, biscuits. I ask how she and Dad are. Half-listen, interrupt, sometimes even scoff—what could possibly be happening at their age? I live in a parallel world.
Mum will inevitably say I’m “always underdressed,” that I should wrap up, that my cough is from “leaving my coat open,” and that I work too much. She’ll repeat that life is hard, yes, that she understands, and it’s fine if I don’t visit often.
We live twenty miles apart.
I call her nearly every day. She talks slowly, in detail:
— Tomatoes have gone up at the market. Your sister’s struggling with the farm, managing it all alone. The parsley needs cutting 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 seems nothing important ever happens in her life.
I get frustrated when she complains about her heart but refuses to see a doctor. What can I do? I’m not a physician! I tell her, “Mum, please, just go! I don’t know what medicine to give you!”
Then, suddenly, her voice changes, soft and quiet:
— Who else can I tell, love, if not you?
My fingers freeze around the phone.
Because it’s true. Because I’m hers. The only one who truly belongs to her.
And so, forgetting everything, I drop it all. Rush to her. No warning. No plan. Just because I must.
She—as if she’d been waiting. Already at the door with a towel. Already frying fish. Dad slices a melon, pulls out a bottle of homemade cider:
— Fresh. Just finished fermenting,— he says proudly.
I decline—I’m driving. He nods, pours himself a glass. We laugh. Loud, from the heart.
I’m chilly. I wrap myself in Mum’s warm cardigan. She darts to light the oven:
— We’ll warm the kitchen so you don’t freeze.
And I’m small again. That little girl who’s safe. Who’s loved. Who’s fed. For whom the air is warmed.
Everything’s delicious. Everything’s warm. Everything’s real.
Mum, dearest, darling…
Just live.
Long. Very long.
Because I don’t know how to live without hearing your voice on the phone.
Because I don’t know how to live without your kitchen, where you always make sure I’m warm.
Because no matter what happens in the world, I need an anchor. And that anchor has always been you.
Mum.
Just be.
