I love you so much, Mum, Id sigh at breakfast when I was about fourteen.
Oh, really? Mum would answer, smiling at me with that knowing look. Then how about next time you just peel some potatoes before I get back from work? I promise, Ill feel that love without you saying a word.
I adore my cat! Id gush, pressing my cheek into her soft, warm fur, breathing in her familiar scent.
Oh? Perhaps youll change her litter, then? Dad would chime in. Shes miserable, poor thing, sitting there, trying to find a dry spot.
I used to listen to my parents and wonder if theyd really heard me at all. I was talking about love! What did potatoes or cat litter have to do with love?
I remember, back when I was about seven, I had to spend a few weeks in hospital. It was a grey old place in the countryside, hospitals in those days run like clockwork, so strict. Visiting hours were tight, and you could only catch a glimpse of your parents from the hospital gardens, standing under the window while you waved from abovethank goodness it was September and not too cold.
Still, Mum arrived twice a day. Every morning and evening the nurse would put a small carrier bag on my bedside tableinside, thered be some homemade cottage cheese, still warm compote, a little pot of porridge, a tiny steamed chicken patty. Just enough for one sitting, so Id always have something fresh to eat. And, pressed beside the bag, kept flat between the pages of the Herald, three or four sheets of drawing paper, each with clothes for my paper dollbeautiful tiny dresses and skirts, coats and jumpers, the sleeves all drawn with the white tabs so I could fold them around my dolly.
I never once asked Mum for those. They werent medicine or fancy stock. She just knew I loved itloved to colour them in, then cut them out and play make believe. And honestly, where she found the time is a mystery. Every outfit was different: little bows, buttons, polka dots endless ideas.
That was her way, then, of saying I love you. I only truly understood that decades later, but its stayed with me forever.
We rarely realise how much the little things matter
Of course, sweet words, sonnets, confessionstheyre important. We, women, do love with our hearts, our ears, the whole lot, and we need to hear I love you out loud sometimes. But if we never see those words reflected beyond the spoken, they grow empty and flat. Yes, you can say I love you with a diamond ring, platinum cufflinks, a huge bouquet or a hot air balloonlovely gestures, all of them.
But love can be simpler, and every single day gives us a chance to show itwe just have to care.
Our friends dachshund lost the use of her back legs, poor thing. Such a dear little dog, but paralysed forever. Yet, somehow, shes made it three years now. Her owner built her a set of wheels so she can walk herself on the grass every day.
They could have just carried her, or wheeled her out in a pram. But the little dog wanted to walk on her own legs, so her people made it happen, because they truly love her.
When love leads the way, the ways to show it are everywhere. We do it, without a second thought, with honest hearts and no hesitation.
We tiptoe into a sleeping childs room, careful as mice, to move a pillow or tuck a blanket, so they dont wake cold or stiff. We gently ease a phone from a drowsy hand so a ring wont break the clutch of sleep.
We cook the best breakfast coffee in the world, making a train out of cheese for a childs plate, steaming into a rosette of tomato and egg petals.
We listen for hours when a friend needs us, dream up gifts and surprises, bring in the sunshine with a cheeky smile.
We hand over our last notes and pounds for medicine, and snip beads off our beloved necklace to decorate a snowflake costume.
Life feels endless, though its gone in a blink.
The little thingsoh, they are what lasts. A loving heart knows just when its love is most needed and says so without a word.
For as long as I can remember, my mum and my gran would always bustle out into the hallway when Dad or Grandad came back from work. A man needs to feel wanted at home, theyd say. I do the same now.
I sit at my laptop, knitting thoughts together into something that makes sense. Theres the faint click of the lockhes home. I promise myself Ill stand up and greet himjust as soon as I finish my row, so the stitches dont drop. I glance over my shoulder at the doorway, smile, and say, Give me two minutes and well have dinner. Then I slip back into my tangled stitchwork of words and curly punctuation.
And always, somehow, just as quietly, a mug of strong builders tea appears beside me, a platetwo sandwiches, everything from the fridge: roast ham, cheddar, a slice of tomato, bits of pickle, a couple of olives. Next to it, two unwrapped chocolates, waiting. All so I dont have to stop even for a second to fuss with wrappers.
And in the hush of that little room, I hear more love than a thousand I love yous could spell out.
Its an art, this saying I love you without the words.
A shared holiday or a home-cooked roast. An ironed shirt or a birthday balloon. The perfect doll, the cats bowl filled and fresh, a long kiss, a blanket draped gently over your knees, an umbrella popped open above your head, pancakes made with little bunny ears, likes, hearts, shy glances, and smiles.
It doesnt matter if youre talking about the problems of the world or a missed goal at Stamford Bridgeits how you listen that counts.
Its not about drinking Bollinger from a flute or a spiced autumn coffee in a paper cupwhat matters is whos sitting across from you and the feeling between you.
It makes no difference whether you stroll through midnight London or wander through a sunflower fieldits all about whos by your side.
We just need to remember, always, that the words I love you, however precious, fade fast if not matched with deeds. Without them, those words lose their colour and warmth and worth.
We mustnt let that happen.
Love is never just about words.
