PART 2 – The Mother Who Always Said Everything Was Fine
After that phone call with Marco, I sat alone in my small kitchen for a long time.
The €400 was still lying on the table.
I looked at it, but my thoughts were no longer about the money at all.
I was only thinking about one question:
Since when did my son see things I was trying my best to ignore?
I had always thought I knew Marco better than anyone else.
I knew he drank black coffee in the morning.
I knew he hated rainy days because he once got stuck in the cold for hours.
I knew he always checked his phone twice before leaving the house.
I knew he went quiet when he was stressed instead of talking about it.
I knew so many little things about my son.
But perhaps…
I had forgotten that my son had grown up too.
And that he had learned to look at me as well.
The next day, Marco came to pick me up.
When I opened the car door, he looked at my old gray sweater.
He started to laugh.
“Mama, you’re going to treat yourself and you still put on this sweater?”
I looked down at my clothes.
“What’s wrong with it? It’s still fine.”
Marco shook his head.
“You always say that.”
I smiled.
“Because it’s true.”
But my son didn't laugh along.
He just said quietly:
“Just because something can still be used doesn't mean you have to keep using it.”
Those words made me quiet.
Because I realized…
He wasn't just talking about that sweater.
He was talking about so many other things.
About my bag that I had been using for over ten years.
About my shoes that I kept getting repaired instead of buying new ones.
About all the times I had turned down a trip because I felt the money was better spent elsewhere.
About my whole life.
I had always thought being frugal was a good trait.
And it is.
But sometimes…
I had gotten so used to putting everything aside for others that I had forgotten myself.
The hair salon was beautiful.
Sunlight poured in through the large windows.
The scent of shampoo, flowers, and the soft voices of other customers made me feel as though I had stepped into another world for a moment.
The hairdresser looked at my hair and smiled.
“You have beautiful hair. It just hasn't had any real care in a long time.”
I smiled.
“I think you’re right.”
Deep down inside, however, I felt a strange sadness.
Because those words didn't just seem to be about my hair.
I sat down in front of the mirror.
And I looked at the woman sitting there.
A 62-year-old woman.
A woman who had spent more than thirty years taking care of others.
Suddenly, I thought back to the past.
To the years after my husband passed away.
Marco was only seventeen then.
One morning, our house suddenly became terrifyingly quiet.
I didn't know how to go on.
I didn't know if I could be strong enough to be both mother and father to a teenage boy.
But I had no choice.
I had to stay strong.
I worked more hours.
I took on extra jobs on the weekends.
I learned to fix things around the house myself.
I learned how to replace a lightbulb.
I learned how to hide my tears when Marco asked:
“Mama, are you sad?”
And my answer was always the same:
“I’m doing fine.”
I had said those words so many times…
That I eventually started believing they were true myself.
After my hair was done, Marco drove me to a small restaurant I used to love visiting.
I looked surprised.
“You still remember this place?”
He smiled.
“Of course.”
“Mama, you brought me here when I graduated from my studies.”
I looked at him.
“You remember that?”
“I remember a lot of things about you.”
I looked at my glass on the table.
“But I thought you were always busy.”
Marco went quiet for a moment.
Then he said:
“I was.”
“With my work, my family, and everything that came with it…”
“But you know, Mama?”
“Often I thought you would always be there.”
I looked at him.
He looked down at his hands.
“I thought you were so strong that you didn't need anyone.”
I said nothing.
Because he was right.
I had let everyone believe I needed nothing.
I was always the one who asked:
“Have you eaten?”
“Did you sleep enough?”
“Is everything going well at work?”
But almost no one ever asked me:
“Mama, are you tired?”
After lunch, Marco drove me home.
Before I got out of the car, he said:
“Mama.”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry.”
I looked surprised.
“For what?”
“Because it took me so long to see it.”
I smiled.
“You don’t have to say sorry.”
But Marco shook his head.
“Yes, I do.”
“Because I always thought you were the one taking care of me.”
“I forgot that you need someone to take care of you too.”
I took his hand.
“Marco…”
He smiled softly.
“But I haven’t told you everything yet.”
I looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
He was silent for a few seconds.
Then he said:
“Do you remember my birthday last year?”
“My birthday?”
“No, Mama. Your birthday.”
I frowned.
“Yes…”
“I called you that day.”
“Yes.”
“But I heard you crying.”
I froze.
“How did you know that?”
Marco looked at me.
“Because you said your allergies were bothering you.”
I didn't know what to say.
Because I remembered that day very well.
I was sitting alone in the living room.
With a small cake I had bought myself.
With one candle on it.
No one knew it was my birthday.
And when Marco called, I tried to sound cheerful.
I said:
“Mama’s doing fine.”
But maybe…
For the first time in my life…
My son knew those words weren't always the truth.
Marco started the car.
“Mama.”
“Yes?”
“I want to give you something.”
“I’m coming over tonight.”
I looked at him curiously.
“What is it?”
He just smiled.
“Something you’ve been keeping for years…”
“But whose meaning you never knew.”
That evening, Marco came to my house.
He placed an old wooden box in front of me.
And when I opened the box…
My hands started to tremble.
Because inside…
Lay a letter I had written more than twenty years ago.
But never sent.
