for the evening…

It so happened that this week I got the rare chance to spend time in the countryside, with Mom.
Leaving the older ones and Mister Ego in Dad’s care, I snuggled My in my arms.
I arrived at my childhood home, where Mom pampers me 24/7.
I spent my days in a six-star “hotel,” thinking that it might not get any better than this.
Fed. Pampered. With free hands.
Before bed, “lulled” with a massage.

Today, I dashed to the store for a few missing items, and standing in line at the checkout, I couldn’t help but notice the two people waiting behind me.
First, cutting through the usual store bustle, a deep male voice sounds:
“Which checkout did you get in line for???” — the man complains.

From their conversation, I gather it’s a mother and her roughly 40-year-old son.
As he unloads groceries from the basket his mother is holding, he grumbles:
“What kind of milk did you get?”
“Since when is this bread any good?”
“And you chose the ‘light’ butter.
And sour cream… what the heck is this?”

Even though the products are clearly from a cheaper line, I honestly don’t think they deserve such criticism.
The elderly mother feels embarrassed as the “angry” man mutters loudly, and other people in line start to look around.
In a calm voice, she soothes her grown-up son’s tantrums: she says she’ll get different products next time—ones that he’ll like…

Finally, she picks up a “Tupla” chocolate bar from the checkout shelf and holds it out to the scowling son:
“Will you eat this, sweetheart?” — she asks in a gentle voice.
The “little man” mumbles something, but the chocolate stays with the groceries.
“Maybe you’ll eat it later,” adds Mom.

I quietly lower my eyes, holding back the urge to turn around and blurt out something rude, but one thought enters my head:
“Respect your Mom, you pig.”

I stay silent. Checking my wallet, realizing I don’t have a discount card, I politely ask if Mom would lend me hers.
She smiles warmly and hands it over.
And inside my wallet, I see a single bill—a tenner—ready to buy the “light” products.

I feel a mix of anger and sadness.
As I leave, I glance back to see who paid for the groceries.
It was Mom.
She gave her tenner and pulled a few coins from the change compartment.

♡____
Moms.
For nine months, they transform into “whales.”
Often, half of that time, they cry.
The other half—they befriend insomnia, heartburn that doesn’t recognize rest, and running around, counting for the umpteenth time trips to the little ones.
They experience the “charm” of childbirth.
They rock. They carry. They feed. They protect. They teach. They nurse.
They forget themselves.
They refuse to say “it hurts,” “I can’t,” or “it’s too hard.”
They endure kindergarten transitions.
They worry more than the kids do about school setbacks.

Like a broken record, their minds play the same melody: “May everything go well for you,” “May everything be okay for you.”

Moms.
They love.
With love that cannot be measured by any existing metric.
Moms.
They love.
Expecting nothing in return.
No thanks. No flowers. No gifts. No sweet words.
Even when their unconditional love is met with loud public scolding.
They can…
Offer a chocolate bar to a son long past adolescence.
Perhaps spending the last of their money.

I left the store with a lump in my throat, and a little anger at myself for holding back and not saying anything to Mr. “Tupla.”

Let’s hug our Moms for no reason.
They are truly magical.