To the Point of Tears… MUM
Mum is seventy-three. Small, stooped, her hands always busy, her gaze a mix of weariness and warmth. She holds out a bag and gives me a sheepish smile:
— Here are some pears, Annie. They’re not the prettiest, but they’re from our garden. No chemicals. You like them, don’t you? Take them, please.
I do. Of course I do. And I take the clotted cream too, because Mum always *just happens to have an extra tub* when she knows I’ll drop by.
— You’re not leaving straight away, are you? You’ll stay for supper once or twice…— she adds softly, almost hopefully.
I get into the car. Turn the key.
Off I go again, rushing away. Work, meetings, errands, cities, time zones, the endless hurry… Everything’s important, everything’s urgent. I visit Mum only when everything else is done—between coffee with friends and a spa appointment, between a business pitch and a flight.
I never arrive empty-handed—I bring her smoked salmon, cheddar, biscuits. I ask how she and Dad are doing. I listen half-heartedly, interrupt, sometimes even tease—what could they possibly have going on at their age? I’m barely present.
Mum will inevitably say I’m *always underdressed*, that I should wrap up my throat, that my cough is from *leaving my coat open*, and that I work too much. She’ll remind me life is hard, that she understands, that it’s fine if I don’t visit often.
We live just thirty miles apart.
I call her nearly every day. She talks slowly, in detail:
— Tomatoes went up at the market. Your sister’s struggling with the farm, all on her own. The parsley needs cutting again after the rain. And our tabby, Whiskers, came home with a scratched eye—no idea where he got into trouble…
I listen. Sometimes—just to be polite.
It feels like nothing important ever happens in her life.
I get annoyed when she complains about her heart but refuses to see a doctor. What am I supposed to do? I’m not a physician! I tell her, *Mum, please, just go! I don’t know what you should take!*
Then, suddenly, her voice changes, quiet and sad:
— Who else can I tell, love, if not you?
My fingers freeze on the phone.
Because it’s true. Because I’m her person. The only one who’s truly hers.
So I forget everything. I drop it all and run to her. No warning. No plan. Just because I must.
And she—as if she’d been waiting. There on the doorstep with a tea towel. Frying up fish. Dad’s slicing a melon, uncorking a bottle of homemade elderberry wine:
— Still young. Just finished fermenting,— he says proudly.
I decline—I’m driving. He nods, pours himself a glass. We laugh. Loudly, properly.
I shiver. I bundle into Mum’s thick cardigan. She rushes to turn on the oven:
— We’ll warm the kitchen so you don’t catch a chill.
And suddenly, I’m little again. That girl who’s safe. Who’s loved. Whose supper is always ready. Whose comfort comes first.
Everything tastes better. Everything feels warmer. Everything—real.
Mum, dearest, sweetest…
Just live.
A long, long time.
Because I don’t know how to live without hearing your voice on the phone.
Because I don’t know how to live without your kitchen, where you always make sure I’m warm.
Because no matter what happens in the world, I need an anchor. And you’ve always been that anchor.
Mum.
Just be.
