PART 1 — The cake no one came home for
Every year, on her grandson's birthday, my mother woke up early. When I was little, I thought it was just a grandmother's habit. But as I grew older, I understood better and better that some things people do are not important because they bring something for themselves. They do them because deep in their heart lives someone they continue to love. My mother was now almost eighty.
Her hands were no longer supple. The fingers with which she had kneaded dough, chopped vegetables, and cooked for her family for years now trembled slightly when she held a spoon. Yet every year on the birthday of her only grandson, she was in the kitchen herself. Lucas. To her, he had never been just a grandson. When Lucas was small, his parents separated.
His mother worked far away, and I had a busy job. So my mother was the one who largely raised him. She took him to school. She waited for him at the school gate. She made his favorite food. And when he was sick, she stayed by his bed all night. Sometimes Lucas woke up in the middle of the night missing his mother. Then he would crawl up against my mother.
“When is mama coming back?” My mother caressed his hair. “I don't know, son.” “But what if she doesn't come back?” Then she smiled. “Then I'll wait with you.” Lucas looked at her. “Do you promise?” “I promise.” Perhaps that was the reason why Lucas had always considered her house his true home. But children grow up. And when they grow up, they sometimes begin to believe that home is something left behind them.
Lucas went to university. Then he got a job. He moved to the city. He made new friends. He got a girlfriend. His world kept growing larger. And my mother's world kept growing smaller. The phone calls that used to come daily became weekly. Then monthly. Sometimes she heard nothing for months. But when I said: “You should tell him that you don't like this.” my mother shook her head.
“He's busy.” “But mom…” “He's young. Let him live.” That was her answer. Always. This year, she woke up again at six in the morning. She grabbed her old apron. Put on her glasses. And started on Lucas's favorite cake. Vanilla cake. Whipped cream. Strawberries. Just like before. I watched as she placed the strawberries on top of the cake one by one. “Mom,” I said. “Yes?” “Do you think he's coming today?” She smiled. “He is my grandson.” That was all she said. That afternoon, the house remained quiet. The chair next to her remained empty. At seven in the evening, her phone rang. A message. From Lucas.
Grandma, I'm sorry. I can't come today. I'm busy. My mother read the message twice. Then she put her phone down. “It's okay.” She lit a candle. And sang softly to herself. “Happy birthday to him…” Her voice trembled. After dinner, she was still sitting in front of the cake. I sat down next to her. “Are you sad?” She looked at the candle. “Yes.” It was the first time she admitted it.
“But being sad doesn't mean you should blame someone for living their own life.” She took a deep breath. “A child must leave home someday.” “A grandchild too.” “But…” She looked at the front door. “You just hope that someday he understands that he can always come back.” Three days later, the doorbell rang. I opened the door. Lucas stood there. His face was pale.
His coat was wet from the rain. His eyes were red. He did not look like the successful young man my mother always described to everyone. He looked like someone who hadn't known where to go for months. When he saw his grandmother, he said nothing. He walked over to her. Wrapped his arms around her. And began to cry. “Everything went wrong, grandma.” My mother held him close.
“You are home.” That was all. That evening Lucas told the truth. He had been fired months ago. His company went bankrupt. He had debts. He had tried to solve everything alone. He borrowed money. Shifted bills around. Took new debts to pay off old ones. Until finally he couldn't pay anything anymore. But the worst part wasn't the money. It was the shame.
“I didn't want you to see me like this,” he said. My mother looked at him. “How?” “As a failure.” She held his face with both hands. “Lucas.” He looked at her. “You are never a failure because you fell.” “You are only lost when you refuse to stand up again.” Lucas cried again. That night he slept in his old room. After he fell asleep, my mother called me to her bedroom.
She pulled an old notebook out of her closet. I opened it. My breath caught. There were amounts written in it. Large amounts. Saved over many years. Every month. Every birthday. Every time Lucas needed something, my mother had set something aside. I looked at her. “Mom… where did this come from?” She smiled. “I saved my whole life.” “But for what?” She looked toward the door.
Toward the room where Lucas lay. “For the moment when he no longer knew how to carry on.” I felt tears in my eyes. “Why did you never tell me this?” “Because it wasn't my money.” “It was his future.” Then she slid the notebook toward me. “Give it to him tomorrow.” I looked at her in surprise. “Why don't you give it to him yourself?” My mother looked at her trembling hands. And said: “Because he needs to believe he can do it himself.” She was quiet for a moment. “And above all…” “Never let him know that I saved for this.” I didn't understand. Not yet. But the next morning, I would find out why.
