Some nights, I’m too tired to eat.
The kids are finally asleep, the dishes still sit in the sink, and the house is quiet—except for the hum of exhaustion settling into my bones. I lean against the fridge, staring at the mess of school papers, overdue bills, and half-finished to-do lists pinned under mismatched magnets.
I’m 52 years old, a single mother, and I should have it all figured out by now. But some days, I barely have the energy to exist.
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| For illustration purposes | Credits: Nick Stafford via Pixabay |
I sigh and open the freezer. The cold air rushes out, biting against my skin. And there they are—neatly stacked meals, each with a little handwritten note taped to the lid.
I reach for one.
"Mummy’s famous mince & potatoes – STOP ROLLING YOUR EYES AND JUST EAT IT ❤️"
A small chuckle escapes me. My throat tightens.
My phone buzzes. Mum.
I hesitate before picking up. "Hi, Mum."
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"Hi, love. What’s for dinner?"
I glance at the container in my hand. "Your famous mince and potatoes."
"Ah, the one you always say needs more salt!" she laughs.
"You know I don’t care about that," I say, shaking my head.
"I know," she says gently. "Just wanted to make sure you’re eating."
I reach for another meal. Another note.
"You’ve survived 100% of your worst days. This one is no different."
My fingers tremble. I blink fast.
"Mum… you didn’t have to do all this."
"Darling, you take care of everyone else. Let me take care of you."
I exhale shakily, pulling out another meal.
"Even warriors need to rest. Eat, then sleep."
Even at 52, even as a mother myself, I still need her.
"I saw your notes," I whisper.
"Good," she says. "Read them all, okay?"
I nod, even though she can’t see me. "I will."
"That’s my good girl."
The microwave beeps. I stare at the warm meal in front of me, then at the freezer full of love. My chest tightens, but this time, it doesn’t feel as heavy.
"Thanks, Mum."
"Always, love. Always."
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