Three Mornings a Week
My mum was a wonderfully kind and quietly stubborn woman. I grew up in an ordinary familyshe was a nursery assistant, and Dad drove lorries. We lived modestly, but the word “need” never weighed heavyher care and the warmth of home always outweighed it.
One day, Dad didnt come home. Hed fallen ill on the bus, lost consciousness. People assumed he was drunkthe driver and conductor carried him out at the last stop and left him under a tree. Only at the end of their shift did they call an ambulance. At the hospital, the doctors marvelled that hed survived. He never fully recoveredhis heart seemed to tread carefully after that, as if on tiptoes. But Mum only said, “Thank God hes alive. Well take better care now.”
She always spoke like that. “If you lose something, it means God took the thing, not your health.” Her simple words settled in my heart like a fresh tea towel on the kitchen table.
When I left for university in London, our little miracle beganthree mornings a week. The coach left at six. Mum woke in the dark. The kitchen light glowed, the kettle murmured, and the cold air rang outside. She laid out her quiet arithmetic of love: porridge in a tub, meat pies in an enamel bowl, salad in a jar with a new lid, homemade lemonade in a bottle, a couple of pastries “for later,” an apple, salt in a twist of paper”just in case.” She wrapped it all in a clean linen towel”so the warmth stays”and packed it into that same blue-checked bag, where the little jars clinked like tiny bells.
“Mum, you dont have to” Id say over the phone the night before. “Ill manage.”
“Well, so will I,” shed laugh. “Better my hands tire than your heart ache from missing home.”
At six, the coach sighed and pulled away. A couple of hours later, my buzzer rang: “Love, open upIm at your door.” And wed have breakfast. Id shut my eyes in delight, just like a child. Then, for the daycontainers, jars, “this for tomorrow,” “this for a quick bite,” “and this, in case your mate drops by.” Three times a week. If she ever missed a visit, Id sulk as if shed stolen a breath of air from me.
“You promised” Id whisper into the phone.
“Sorry, love. The coach broke down today. Ill come tomorrow.”
I married in a hurry. My parents werent at the wedding
“What about your dad?” Mum asked gently. “Hell struggle to make the trip.”
“Then well visit you afterward and celebrate,” I said briskly, changing the subject. Years later, it hit meshed wanted to be there. To see me in my wedding dress with her own eyes, not just in photos.
Dad went first. Mum grew quiet, like a house without its evening lamp. All I could muster were hollow words: “Mum, dont grieve too hard He was ill for so long. It wouldve happened anyway”
She nodded and visited even more oftennow bringing not just my favourite meat pies but tiny jars of mashed potatoes “for the grandkids.”
“Mum, wheres the water from?” Id ask.
“The well. The best kind. I boiled it.”
One day, my husband said, “Were not eating this. Who knows where its from or how clean it is. Especially not for the kids.”
“But its Mum”
“Exactly. Dont upset herjust say thanks and leave it.”
I didnt “leave it.” I smiled, took the bag, and later threw it away. Gently, so the jars wouldnt clink. I returned the empty dishes”Mum, it was lovely”and heard her bright reply: “Thank God you liked it. Next time, Ill try it different, see if its even better.”
She never scolded me. Shed arrive with her bags of food, sit at the table, and listen. And Id complainwork was exhausting, the kids were unruly, no one helped at home, tired upon tired.
“We cant even get away,” I sighed. “Just me and him, even for a nightno one to watch the kids.”
Mum looked up softly. “No one? What about me? Id stay with them.”
I chuckled as if it were a joke. “Mum, come on! We can barely manage, and you? What could you even do?”
She fell silent. Just smiled her quiet, almost childlike smile. Then, as always, changed the subject: “Well, the main thing is youre together. Ill make some soupease your load.”
Then, one day, she was gone.
Silence. No visits, no treats. Only emptiness. I wept, my own voice echoing in my earscold, alien: “Dont grieve too hard. It wouldve happened anyway.” My husband and kids said, “Why take it so hard? She was old” But I couldnt rest.
I went to her house. The kitchen was spotless, like a surgery. A pristine tablecloth. On the stoolthat same folded towel. In the bucket, clean water, fetched by her hands. Her bed neatly made, a worn Bible by the pillow, her glasses, notepad, pen, handkerchief. I touched the handkerchieflike touching her palm.
I sat on the edge of the bed and spoke to the empty room as if she stood there with her bag: “Mum, forgive me. For not having you at my wedding. For not seeing your care. For throwing away your food. For doubting you with the kids. For we have enough time. For all I didnt finish, didnt hear, didnt say”
ThenI swearI heard the whisper of a boiling kettle from the kitchen. And her voice, clear as ever: “Love, dont cry. The main thing is youre alive. The children too. I always knew. I see how you love.”
Love really can be carried in a blue-checked bag. Wrapped in a towel so it doesnt spill. Brought at six in the morning, three times a weekwithout a single complaint. You can accept it or you can miss it.
Now, when I make porridge, a clean towel lies on the table. I set out an empty platefor her meat pies thatll never come. And I whisper: “Mum, I love you. So much. And I miss you unbearably.”
I knowwhere she is now, shes warm. Because she spent her life warming us. And with God, no foods thrown away. Only memories, neatly packed, with love.
