**A Heartfelt Diary Entry**
Mum is seventy-three. Petite, a little stooped, her hands always busy, her eyes a mix of weariness and warmth. She hands me a bag and gives me a guilty smile.
“Here are some pears, Lily. They’re not the prettiest, but they’re homegrown. No chemicals. You like them, don’t you? Take them, please.”
I take them. Of course I do. And the clotted cream too, because Mum always “just happens to have an extra pot” when she knows I’m coming.
“You’re not leaving straight away, are you? You’ll stay for dinner once or twice…” she adds softly, almost hopefully.
I get into the car. Start the engine.
Off I go again, always running. Work, meetings, errands, cities, time zones, the endless rush… 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 arrive empty-handed—I bring fish, cheese, sweets. I ask how she and Dad are doing. I listen half-heartedly, interrupt, sometimes even scoff—what could possibly be happening in their lives at their age? I exist in a parallel world.
Mum will inevitably say I’m “never dressed warmly enough,” that I should take care of my throat, that my cough is from “not buttoning my coat,” and that I work too much. She’ll remind me life is hard, that she understands, and that it’s okay I don’t visit often.
We live just forty miles apart.
I call her almost every day. She talks slowly, meticulously:
“Tomatoes went up at the market. Your sister’s still struggling on the farm, managing everything alone. Had to cut the parsley again after the rain. And our cat, Whiskers, came home with a messed-up 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 frustrated when she complains about her heart but refuses to see a doctor. What am I supposed to do? I’m not a medic! I tell her, *”Mum, please, just go! I don’t know what to tell you to take!”*
Then, suddenly, her voice changes—quiet, vulnerable.
“Who else can I talk to, love, if not you?”
My fingers freeze on the phone.
Because it’s true. Because I’m her person. The only one who’s truly hers.
And just like that, I drop everything. I rush to her. No warning, no plan. Simply because I must.
And she—as if she’d been waiting. Already at the door with a tea towel. Already frying fish. Dad’s slicing a melon, pulling 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. Loudly, wholeheartedly.
I’m cold. I wrap myself in Mum’s thick cardigan. She immediately turns on the oven.
“Let’s warm up the kitchen so you don’t freeze.”
And suddenly, I’m little again. The girl who’s safe, loved, fed. The girl whose mother heats the room just for her.
Everything’s delicious. Everything’s warm. Everything’s real.
Mum, my darling…
Just keep living.
A long, long time.
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 you’ve always been mine.
Mum.
Just be.
