The message read: “I miss my family. I wish they visited more.”
Mom swallowed hard.
“They replied.
They said… ‘At least your kids are alive. My daughter doesn’t speak to me. My son moved away.’ One wrote… that she hadn’t seen her children in three years.”
Her voice cracked.
“I started imagining what it would be like… if one day the two of you stopped coming too.”
She took a shaky breath.
“So I panicked. I didn’t want to cook.
I didn’t want to pretend everything was normal. I just… needed a moment.”
My heart broke.
I wrapped my arms around her.
“Mom. We’re not going anywhere.”
My brother added, “You could’ve told us how you felt.”
She shook her head and laughed through her tears. “I know.
It was silly.”
“It wasn’t,” I said gently.
“But next time, don’t suffer alone.”
We spent the entire day sitting with her, looking through photos, listening to her stories, reminding her how loved she is. And that night, my brother ordered food, I reheated leftovers, and we had our Sunday dinner anyway—right there on the living room floor between piles of memories.
Mom smiled again. Before we left, she said, “Next week… dinner at 6.
Bring extra tupperware.”
Some traditions aren’t meant to be broken—and some reminders of love come in the most unexpected, heartbreaking, beautiful ways.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental.
The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance.
All images are for illustration purposes only.
