Chapter 5: The Mother’s Day No One Remembers

Because my son had told me in advance they wouldn’t be home for dinner, that evening I made myself a pot of chicken noodle soup—something I’d been craving for days.

I took my time, savoring the ritual—chopping onions, simmering broth, letting the scent fill the kitchen. It was a small act of kindness for myself. Just for me, for once.

I’d made it before, but my daughter-in-law doesn’t like chicken, so I rarely cooked it. And for my grandson, I always bought boneless cuts, which just didn’t taste the same.

I remembered all the times I’d changed recipes to suit everyone else, always compromising, never complaining. Tonight, though? I made it just the way I liked.

Today, I used a whole chicken.

The broth was rich, the meat tender. I ladled myself a generous bowl, feeling a little thrill of rebellion.

Just as I sat down to eat, my son’s family came back.

The front door banged open, voices tumbling in, coats flung over chairs. Their faces were drawn, eyes tired, the energy in the room frazzled.

He looked exhausted. “Mom, can you make a couple more dishes? We haven’t eaten—we’re starving!”

He ran a hand through his hair, his voice pleading. I could see the stress etched into his face, the kind that comes from a long, disappointing day. He looked worn out.

My grandson chimed in, “Grandma, I’m so hungry, so hungry!”

He clutched his stomach dramatically, eyes wide. It was the same old routine—hunger, impatience, expectation.

Seeing all three of them looking unwell, I thought maybe something happened at the wedding reception and they didn’t get to eat.

They looked pale, out of sorts. I wondered if the food had been bad, or if something had gone wrong. My worry overrode my frustration, and I jumped into action.

I rushed into the kitchen.

I didn’t even stop to ask questions. I just moved, grabbing whatever I could find, determined to put something on the table fast. The fridge light glared at me, and I let out a long sigh, but I kept going.

There wasn’t much left in the fridge.

I stared at the shelves, half-empty. I’d planned for a quiet night, not a family feast. I grabbed what I could—eggs, tomatoes, potatoes, peppers, collards.

All I could do was quickly whip up scrambled eggs with tomatoes, hash browns with sautéed green peppers, and a bowl of collard greens soup.

I worked fast, hands moving on autopilot. The kitchen filled with the smell of frying potatoes and simmering greens. I tried to ignore the ache in my back, focusing on the task at hand.

When I brought the dishes out, my grandson complained, “Why is it all vegetables? I’m not eating this! I want meat!”

He pushed his plate away, lips curled in a pout. “I want meat! This is gross!” His voice echoed in the dining room, bouncing off the walls. I bit my tongue.

My son tried to coax him. “Didn’t you used to like chicken noodle soup? Just eat it for now, okay?”

He tried to reason, voice patient. “Come on, Mason. Grandma made this for you. Just eat a little, alright?”

But my grandson wouldn’t let up. “I don’t care! I want meat!”

He folded his arms, stubborn as ever. Nothing would change his mind.

I told them we were out of meat.

I tried to keep my tone gentle. “Sorry, Mason, we’re out of meat. I’ll get some tomorrow.”

My daughter-in-law said coolly, “There’s a deli downstairs—just go buy something.”

Her words were flat, eyes never leaving her phone. It wasn’t a suggestion—it was an order.

My grandson’s eyes lit up. “Grandma, I want fried chicken. Go buy it for me!”

He jumped up, excitement replacing his sulk. “Please, Grandma! Fried chicken, please!”

My son urged me too. “Mom, go ahead. If you don’t get fried chicken for Mason, none of us will have a good night!”

He looked at me, pleading. “Come on, Mom. Just this once.”

But by the time I’d stood in line for over half an hour and brought it back, they’d nearly finished eating.

The city lights flickered on as I waited, the line stretching out the door. My feet ached, my hands cold around the takeout bag. When I finally got home, the table was a mess of empty plates and half-eaten food. No one waited for me.

The scrambled eggs with tomatoes were down to just tomatoes, the hash browns were less than a third left, and the soup was barely touched.

I stared at the leftovers, my appetite fading. The meal I’d rushed to make was picked over, barely a thank you in sight.

My grandson looked sulky. “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?”

His words were harsh, mocking. They hit harder than I expected.

“My mom said you’re just here to be a maid!”

He said it like it was nothing, just repeating what he’d heard. I felt a lump rise in my throat.

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

He tossed the words over his shoulder, not even looking at me. I blinked back tears, my hands shaking as I set the chicken down.

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

She didn’t say a word, didn’t look up. Invisible. Like a ghost in my own kitchen.

My son gave me an awkward smile and called me over. “Mom, come eat. The food’s getting cold!”

He tried to smooth things over, but his voice was thin, almost pleading. “Mason’s just a kid—he doesn’t mean what he says. Don’t take it to heart!”

My grandson’s words hit me like a punch to the gut.

I just stood there, frozen.

My heart just sank.

It felt like something inside me broke, quietly and completely.

“Didn’t you all go to the wedding reception today?”

I tried to keep my voice steady, hoping for some explanation, some reason for all of this.

My grandson jumped off his chair, snatched the bag from my hand, and tore open the fried chicken box, grabbing the drumstick for himself.

He barely paused to answer, fingers greasy, mouth full. The chicken disappeared in seconds. He didn’t even look at me.

Chewing as he spoke, he mumbled, “We went to my other grandma’s today. It’s Mother’s Day—we went to give her a gift!”

He said it matter-of-factly, like it was obvious. I felt the words land, heavy and cold.

Grandma, didn’t I tell you I like the breast? But you got the drumstick—it’s so greasy and gross. How am I supposed to eat this?

He frowned, picking at the chicken, disappointment written all over his face. I tried to explain, but he cut me off.

“You’re not just slow now—your hearing’s bad too!”

He laughed, mean and sharp, and I felt my cheeks burn. The room spun, the noise of the city outside suddenly too loud.

The deli downstairs is always busy. By the time it was my turn, only drumsticks were left.

I tried to explain, voice trembling. “I’m sorry, Mason. There weren’t any breast pieces left.” But he just shrugged, already losing interest. Nothing I did was ever enough.

I looked at my son, waiting for an explanation.

I searched his face, hoping for understanding, for an apology, for anything. He wouldn’t even look at me.

His face turned bright red, eyes darting everywhere, and he stammered, trying to change the subject.

I could feel the apology he wouldn’t say.