If you only ever ask me about food, love, just stop calling, okay? I’ve got more pressing things than chatting about meals every single day, got it? Clear enough?
Margaret held the phone to her ear, tears welling up but refusing to spill. The sting of her sons sharp words hit her harder than anything shed felt before.
Alright, love, well talk tomorrow, she managed to squeeze out. In the next few seconds her whole life with him flashed by. She saw him as a tiny babe, his little hand tangled in her hair, his first scraped knee, the warm hug and the tears that stained her blouse after his first school flop. She remembered the morning he left for university, suitcase in hand, boarding the train she was so proud of him.
When the call finally ended, Margaret kept the phone glued to her ear. The kitchen still smelled of vegetable soup and fresh parsley; a scent that used to calm her now just churned the emptiness in her chest. She set the phone down, grabbed the wooden spoon and started stirring mechanically. Her gaze drifted to the fogged window where, on the second floor, Mrs. Betty watered her flowers each morning. Shes got a lad in London too, Margaret thought with a sigh.
Now James wasnt the baby shed once cradled; he was a grown man, busy on his own two feet. She, meanwhile, was retired. Shed spent decades in a big factory as an engineer, respected by everyone people even fell silent when she entered a room. Now she was an old lady living alone, and the biggest joy in her day was hearing his voice. Whenever his name lit up the screen, her heart swelled, and shed inevitably ask the same thing over and over: James, what have you eaten today?
Three days passed with no call. Margaret switched on the radio, the silence becoming unbearable. She put the kettle on, and to fill the void she spoke to him in a low voice as if he were right there:
James, its sunny but windy. Grab that blue scarf, and dont forget if you do forget, thats fine, I still love you.
The phone finally rang that evening, his name flashing on the screen.
Mum Im sorry. Ive been shorttempered and stupid. My boss gave me a dressingdown, I ran late, my pay got held up. I snapped at the wrong person you. You know whats the worst, Mum? I closed my eyes and the courier rang. Where should I leave the parcel? I said, At the front door. Two hours later I got home to find a box drenched from the rain. Inside was the pot Id ordered two weeks ago. I laughed at myself, because I havent even had time to eat in days.
Margaret didnt know how to answer, just sank into her chair.
Mum we can talk about the weather, about the roast, but promise me if I slip up again, youll tell me. Dont let me lose myself.
Ill do that, she whispered. And you know what, James? What have you eaten? is my way of reaching out when youre far away. Its how I keep feeding you, even if I cant stitch your shirt anymore.
He was quiet for a long while, and the silence didnt feel cold.
Ill be over tomorrow, he finally said, not when the calendar frees up, just tomorrow.
When we get old, we survive on the tiny bits of words our kids drop into our hands every day: Did you eat? Hows the weather? They arent just small talk theyre the crumbs that keep us close. So dont burn those bridges with harsh words. Slip in I love you through a recipe, through a forecast.
And remember, if impatience or pride starts to gnaw at you, think back to that line:
If you only ever ask me about food, love, just stop calling
It hurts because sometimes the only way we manage to say I love you is through food. And a daily I love you, even if it comes in two quick questions, can hold an entire heart together.
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