If you only ever ask me about food, you’d better stop calling, love! I have more important things than chatting about meals every single day, alright, mum? Do you understand?
Rose clutched the phone to her ear, tears gathering like dew in her eyes, daring not to spill. The sting that hit her mothers heart when her son hurled those sharp words felt as vast as an ocean.
Alright, son! Well speak tomorrow, the woman managed to say. In the next few breaths her whole childhood flashed before her. She saw him as a tiny babe nursing at her breast, his little fist tangled in her hair. She remembered his first scraped knee, his small, trembling sobs. She felt the warm hug that soaked her shirt after his first school failure. She recalled the moment they stood together on the platform, bags stacked high, as he boarded the train to university. Pride swelled like a tide.
Rose lingered with the handset long after the line clicked shut. The house smelled of carrotandparsley soup and fresh dill; a scent that once soothed now churned an empty hollow in her chest. She set the phone down, picked up a wooden spoon, and began to stir automatically. Her gaze snagged on the fogged window where, flickering, the opposite block glimmered. On the second floor, Auntie Cissy watered her begonias each morning. She too has a lad in London, Rose thought.
Today the tears had frozen in her eyes. Her Michael was no longer the infant for whom she was the whole world. He was a fullgrown man, busy on his own two feet. And she she was retired. Shed spent years as an engineer in a sprawling factory, respected, her voice silencing the clatter of machines whenever she entered. Now an old woman alone, her greatest joy was hearing his voice. Each time the screen lit up with his name, her heart fluttered. And of all the things she wanted to tell him, she kept circling back to the same question: Michael, what have you eaten today?
Three days passed without a call. Rose turned on the radio, the silence becoming unbearable. She brewed tea and, to fill the void, began speaking to her son in a low, imagined tone, as if the line were still open:
Michael, the sun is shining but the wind is brisk. Take that blue scarf. And dont forget if you forget, it matters notI still love you.
The phone rang at dusk, his name glowing on the screen.
Mum forgive me. I was irritable and foolish. The boss shouted, I ran, my pay got delayed. I took out my anger on someone who didnt deserve it. On you. You know what the worst part was, Mum? he whispered, voice trembling. I hung up, then the courier called: Where shall I leave the parcel? I answered automatically: At the front door. Two hours later I got home to find the box drenched by rain. Inside was the pot Id ordered two weeks ago. I laughed at myself, because I hadnt even had time to eat for two days.
Rose didnt know how to answer. She sank into a chair.
Mum we can talk about the weather, about a Sunday roast. But promise me, if I slip again, youll tell me. Dont let me lose myself.
Ill tell you, she whispered, but remember, Michael, What have you eaten? is my way of reaching you when youre far away. It keeps me from forgetting to feed you, even if I can no longer tug at your shirt.
He fell silent for a long while, and that silence felt warm, not cold.
Ill come tomorrow, he finally said, not on some holiday, not when the calendar frees up, but tomorrow.
When we grow old, parents live on the crumbs of daily words their children drop into their palms: Did you eat? Hows the weather? They arent trivial; they are the breadcrumbs that keep us close. So dont cut those bridges with harsh speech. Say I love you through recipes and weather reports alike.
And remember, if impatience or pride gnaws at you:
If all you ever ask is about food, do better than to keep calling
It hurts, because sometimes the only way we know how to say I love you is through a question about a meal. And a I love you whispered each day, even in two tiny questions, holds an entire heart together.
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