If you only ask me about food, youd better not call again! Ive got more pressing matters than chatting about meals every single day, understand, mother? Did you hear me?
Ethel Smith held the phone to her ear, tears welling but refusing to fall. The sting of her son Thomass harsh words cut deep. Alright, love, well talk tomorrow, she managed to say. In the next few seconds her whole life flashed before her eyes. She saw him as a tiny babe nursing at her breast, his tiny, clumsy hand tangled in her hair. She recalled his first scraped knee, his warm embrace and the tears that dampened her blouse after his first school failure. She remembered the day he boarded the train with a suitcase full of everything, heading off to university. Shed been so proud of him.
Ethel kept the handset pressed to her ear long after the call ended. The house smelled of vegetable stew and fresh parsley; a scent that once soothed her now churned a hollow in her chest. She set the phone down, grabbed the wooden spoon, and began stirring mechanically. Her gaze fixed on the fogged window, where the flickering lights of the building opposite could be seen. On the second floor, Mrs. Jenkins watered her flowers each morning. Shes got a son in London too, Ethel thought.
Now the tears had frozen in her eyes. Thomas was no longer the infant shed been the world to; he was a grown man, busy on his own two feet. And she she was retired. Shed spent years in a large factory as an engineer, respected and admired. The glass doors would hush as she entered. Now she was old, alone, and her greatest joy was hearing from her son. Whenever the screen lit up with his name, her heart swelled. And despite everything she wanted to tell him, she always asked the same thing: Thomas, what have you eaten today?
Three days passed without a call. Ethel turned on the radio, unable to bear the silence. She put the kettle on and, to fill the void, began speaking to her son in a low voice as if he were on the line:
Thomas, its sunny but windy today. Put on that blue scarf. And dont forget even if you do, its fine, I still love you.
The phone rang that evening, his name flashing on the screen.
Mum Im sorry. Ive been angry and foolish. The boss gave me a dressingdown, I ran late, my pay was delayed. I took it out on the wrong person. On you. You know what the worst part was, mum? He continued in a small voice. Id just hung up and the courier asked, Where should I leave the parcel? I said automatically, At the door. Two hours later I got home to find a box drenched by rain. Inside was the pot Id ordered two weeks ago. I laughed at myselfhadnt even had time to eat in the past two days.
Ethel didnt know how to answer. She sank into her chair.
Mum we can talk about the weather, or about a good roast, but promise me if I slip up again, youll tell me. Dont let me lose myself.
I will, she whispered. But know this, Thomas: What have you eaten? is my way of reaching you when youre far away. Its how I make sure Im still feeding you, even if I cant button your shirt any longer.
He fell silent for a long while, and the quiet didnt feel cold any more.
Ill be at your place tomorrow, he finally said, not when the calendar frees up but simply tomorrow.
When we grow old, parents live on the crumbs of daily questions children drop into their palms: Did you eat? Hows the weather? Theyre not trivial; theyre the breadcrumbs that keep us close. So dont burn those bridges with harsh words. Slip in a I love you through a recipe or a forecast.
And remember, if impatience or pride starts to gnaw at you:
If you only ask me about food, youd better not call again!
It hurts, because sometimes the only way we know how to say I love you is through food. A daily I love you, even in two simple questions, can hold an entire heart together.
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