Tears… MUM
Mum is seventy-three. Small, slightly stooped, her hands always busy, and a gaze where weariness blends with warmth. She hands me a bag and offers an apologetic smile.
“Here are some pears, Lizzie. They’re not the prettiest, but homegrown. No chemicals. You like them, don’t you? Take them, love.”
I take them. Of course, I do. And the clotted cream too, because Mum always just “happens to have an extra pot” when she knows I’ll stop by.
“You’re not leaving straight away, are you? Stay for dinner once or twice…” she adds softly, almost hopefully.
I get in the car. Start the engine.
Off again, rushing somewhere. Always running. Work, meetings, errands, cities, time zones, the hurry of it all—everything urgent, everything pressing. I visit Mum only when everything else is done—between coffee with friends and a spa appointment, between a business pitch and a new flight.
I never arrive empty-handed—bringing her smoked salmon, cheddar, shortbread. I ask how she and Dad are, half-listening, interrupting, sometimes even teasing—what could possibly be happening in their quiet life at their age? My mind is elsewhere.
Mum will inevitably scold me for “never dressing warmly enough,” remind me to wrap up my throat, blame my cough on “that flimsy jacket,” and say I work too much. She’ll repeat that life is hard, that she understands, that it’s fine if I don’t visit often.
And yet, we live just thirty miles apart.
I call her nearly every day. She tells me everything, slowly, in detail.
“Tomatoes went up at the market. Your sister’s still struggling on the farm, doing it all alone. Had to trim the parsley after the rain. And Whiskers, the cat, came home with a scratched eye—no idea where he’s been…”
I listen. Sometimes just out of politeness.
It feels like nothing of real importance ever happens in her life.
I get frustrated when she complains about her heart but refuses to see a doctor. What can I do? I’m no physician! I tell her, “Mum, please, just go! I don’t know what medicine you should take!”
Then she says, softer, entirely different—
“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 drop everything. Drive to her. No warning. No plan. Just because I must.
And she—as if she’d been waiting. Already at the door with a tea towel. Already frying fish. Dad slices watermelon, takes out a bottle of homemade elderflower wine.
“Still young. Just finished fermenting,” he says proudly.
I refuse—driving. He nods, pours himself a glass. We laugh. Loud, unreserved.
I shiver. Mum tosses me her knitted sweater, then rushes to turn on the oven.
“We’ll warm the kitchen so you’re not cold.”
And suddenly, I’m little again. That girl who had everything good. Who was loved. Who was fed. Whose comfort mattered enough to heat the whole room.
Everything tastes better here. Warmer. *Real*.
Mum, my dear, my heart…
Just keep living.
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 my anchor. And you’ve always been it.
Mum.
Just be there.
