Chapter 1: The Dinner That Broke Me

Mother’s Day is tomorrow. I should feel special, right? But here I am, staring at an empty kitchen, realizing my son’s little family won’t be eating at home tonight. How did it end up like this?

So, I made myself a pot of chicken noodle soup, just for me. No fuss, no requests, just the comfort of something warm and familiar.

I let the steam rise, curling around my face, the scent of chicken and herbs wrapping me up like a worn blanket. The kitchen was so still, almost unnaturally so, as if the house itself was waiting for something to happen. I poured myself a bowl, letting the warmth seep into my hands as I sat at the old oak table. It was just me, the soup, and the hum of the fridge. Funny how quiet a house can get.

I’d barely sat down when the front door banged open.

The door swung open with a clatter—Mason’s sneakers pounding down the hall, Emily’s voice floating in as she scrolled through her phone, and my son’s tired footsteps trailing behind. Their sudden arrival broke the stillness, filling the house with noise and a rush of chaotic energy.

“Mom, can you whip up a couple more dishes? We haven’t eaten anything—we’re starving!”

He was already shrugging off his jacket, giving me that hopeful, sheepish look—the same look he always had as a kid, begging for one more cookie. I could hear the hunger in his voice, but there was expectation there, too, like it was only natural for me to jump up and take care of them.

I hurried into the kitchen and threw together scrambled eggs with tomatoes, some hash browns with sautéed green peppers, and a bowl of collard greens soup. Cooking for others always woke something up in me—a little spark, a sense of purpose, even if it was just for a moment.

I moved on autopilot: cracking eggs, dicing tomatoes, flipping hash browns in the skillet. The kitchen grew hot and busy with the sizzle of oil, the tang of green peppers, the earthy scent of collards wilting in the pot. I didn’t even stop to wipe the sweat from my brow. I just wanted to get it all on the table before their hunger turned into complaints.

When I set the food on the table, my grandson wrinkled his nose and complained it was too plain. He demanded fried chicken from the deli downstairs, insisting I go buy it for him—right now!

He barely glanced at the food. “Grandma, I don’t want this! I want fried chicken! Go get it for me. Now, please!” He didn’t even look up from his tablet, like I was just the help. I sighed quietly, forced a smile, grabbed my purse, and headed out, hoping the deli line wouldn’t be too long.

I waited in line for over half an hour, and by the time I got back, they’d nearly finished eating.

The evening air was sticky. My feet ached in my sneakers as I waited. When I finally got the box of fried chicken and trudged back upstairs, my heart dropped at the sight of the table—plates nearly empty, crumbs everywhere, and barely a trace of the meal I’d rushed to prepare.

My grandson looked annoyed. “Grandma, why are you so slow? You can’t even handle a simple errand. Did you really think living in our house was supposed to be some kind of vacation for you?”

He rolled his eyes—so dramatic, I was surprised they didn’t get stuck. His words stung, sharp and careless, the kind of thing you hope a child doesn’t really mean—but he said it anyway, right to my face. Kids say the worst things.

“If I’d known, I’d have told Dad to order takeout at my other grandma’s place!”

He muttered it, picking at the chicken, as if it was just a fact, not even an insult. I bit my tongue, swallowing the urge to snap back. The words just sat there, heavy and sour, between us.

My daughter-in-law acted like she didn’t hear, picking at her food and staring at her phone.

She was scrolling, thumb flicking, eyes glued to the screen. Not a word, not even a glance. I felt invisible. Like a ghost in my own kitchen.

My son gave me an awkward smile and called me over to eat.

He tried to smooth things over, his voice gentle but strained. “Come on, Mom, sit down. Eat with us. The food’s still warm.” He always did this, tried to play peacemaker, but I could tell he was tired, too. The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Looking at the pot of chicken noodle soup, picked over until only the noodles were left, I suddenly lost all desire to serve them.

The broth was gone, chicken stripped bare, just limp noodles left floating. My appetite vanished, replaced by a dull ache in my chest. I set the ladle down with a soft clink, feeling more tired than hungry.

Fine. Let them handle themselves from now on.

That thought landed like a stone. Let them do whatever they want from now on! I was done chasing after scraps of gratitude.

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day.

I went to bed telling myself I wouldn’t care. Tomorrow was Mother’s Day, after all. Maybe things would be different.