After twentyone years of marriage, one night Evelyn Whitaker turned to me and said, Youve got to ask another woman out for dinner and a film. I stared, bewildered. She smiled, then whispered, I love you, but theres someone else who loves you too and has been waiting for a sliver of your time. That other woman was my mother.
Margaret Whitaker had been living alone for nineteen years since my father died. The demands of work and caring for three children drained me so completely that I scarcely saw her. That evening I dialed her number and said, Mum, lets go out for dinner and a cinema tomorrowjust the two of us.
Is everything alright, love? she asked, her voice trembling. You know I always think a sudden call brings bad news.
No, Mum, everythings fine. I just want to spend an evening with you. She paused, then answered softly, Id love that.
On Friday after work I drove to her flat in Bath. She was waiting, all dressed up, smiling, in the same navy dress she wore on our wedding anniversary years ago. I told the girls Ive got a date with my son, she laughed, and theyre all eager to hear how it went.
We slipped into a cosy little bistro on the high street. She slipped her arm through mine, the way she used to when I was a child. When the menu arrived, I read the items aloud because the print was tiny for her eyes. I used to read the menu for you, she said, amused. Now its my turn, Mum, I replied.
We talked for agesabout life, about memories, about the years that had piled up between us. The film wed planned to see slipped past, but we didnt mind. When I drove her home, she turned to me and said, Id love to do this again, but next time Ill be the one to invite. I smiled and agreed.
A few days later Margaret suffered a sudden heart attack and died. I never got the chance to say goodbye. Weeks later a plain envelope arrived. Inside was a photocopy of the bistro bill, £42.73, and a note in her neat handwriting:
I paid in advance. I wasnt sure Id be able to be there, but I wanted the dinner for two for you and your wife. Youll never know how much that night meant to me. Love you, son.
In that moment I understood: never postpone the words I love you. Give time to those who matter. Family isnt something you keep for later; its something you live for now.
