After twentyone years of marriage, one night my wife, Eleanor, turned to me and said,
You must ask another woman out for dinner and a film.
I stared, bewildered.
She smiled, her voice dropping to a whisper,
I love you, but I know theres another lady who loves you too and has been waiting for a sliver of your time.
That other lady was my mother, Margaret. She had been living alone for nineteen years since my fathers funeral. The grind of work and the care of our three children stole so many hours that I hardly ever saw her.
That evening I dialed her number and said,
Mum, lets go out tomorrow for dinner and a cinema. Just the two of us.
Whats happened, love? Is everything alright? she asked, a tremor in her voice.
Mothers always think sudden calls bring bad news.
Alls well, Mum. I just want an evening with you.
She fell silent for a heartbeat, then replied gently,
Id like that.
On Friday, after work, I drove to her flat in Manchester. She was already waiting, dressed up, smiling, in the same teal dress shed once worn for our wedding anniversary.
I told the girls I had a date with my son, she chuckled, and theyre all waiting to hear how it went.
We slipped into a tiny, cosy bistro on a cobbled lane. She took my arm the way she used to when I was a child, a tender grip that seemed to pull the present into the past. When the menus arrived, I read them aloud, for the tiny type was a challenge for her eyes.
I used to read menus to you, she said with a soft grin.
Now its my turn, Mum, I answered.
We talked for agesabout the years, about forgotten jokes, about the quiet things that had piled up between us. We missed the film, but we didnt regret it.
When I drove her home, she turned to me and said,
Lets do this again, but next time Ill be the one who invites.
I smiled and agreed.
A few days later Margaret suffered a sudden heart attack and passed away. I never got the chance to say goodbye.
Weeks later a plain envelope arrived. Inside was a photocopy of the restaurant bill and a short note:
I paid in advance. I wasnt sure Id be there, but I wanted to cover a 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 put off saying I love you. Give the people you cherish the time you have.
Family isnt something you put off for later.
Family is now.
