This week, a parcel presumed lost arrived. It was from my mum. Inside was a mask she’d sewn; sunflower seeds to plant; an Easter egg and a card: “To my lovely daughter, I miss you so much!” it read. “Absence truly makes the heart grow fonder. But indifference doesn’t. Video call me. Mum xx”
My mum and I are very close. We speak most days and would usually visit weekly; if it were up to her, it would be more. Her dream is to have all her children, our partners and someday grandchildren living under the same roof. One big happy family, bonded by love, loyalty, south Asian melodrama and unsolicited comments about weight.
“You live so far away,” she’d sigh. “There’s an ocean between us.”
“I live 30 minutes away,” I’d reply, getting the hint. “I’ll come over tomorrow.” I tell her that my friends say I put them to shame with my levels of attentiveness, she will tell me not to compare myself with children who clearly don’t love their mothers. It’s probably why, when she video calls me and I switch it to audio, she takes it personally. But I can’t bear video calls from loved ones: too many connection drop-outs, too many missed cues, plus the fact that your caller can hear all the noises of your home, and you theirs, and passersby can hear every word. At least phone calls are intimate.
But when I opened her thoughtful gifts, my stomach sank with guilt. I counted the weeks since I saw her: eight, our longest separation. And I realised I’d been doing the thing we do too often: assume that what people need emotionally is the same, assume my standard is her standard.
“I’m so happy to see you!” Mum says later when I video call. “You look beautiful.” Her face is beaming, and I think, “This isn’t so bad.” “Yes, beautiful,” she continues warmly. “And fatter.”
.png?w=600)
