To the one far away, when home just came through the floods

His phone buzzed in the rented room; outside the window, the city was raining too. Mom had posted three words in the family group chat: "we're okay." He let out a long breath — and kept staring at the screen anyway.

He scrolled up. Last flood season, and the one before, she'd sent the exact same words. Then on a video call, her camera swept past the wall — a brown waterline running across it, halfway up, still damp. Her "okay" never meant nothing happened. It meant it was over, and she didn't want him to worry. This time he didn't just nod along. He asked one more thing: is the wall dry yet, Mom?

There was another call, while the rain was still coming down. On screen, his dad climbed onto the tin roof to tie down a sheet the wind had lifted, the ladder propped up with no one holding it. He stood in the middle of his room, hands empty, so useless he almost hung up just to stop watching. Then his dad called down: keep talking, it helps me not be scared. He didn't hang up — not until his dad's feet were back on the ground.

The water went down, but storm season isn't over. He looked through his call log: every call short, every call the same question — "is everything okay at home?" Ask something that wide and there's only one answer to give. So he asked something specific instead — is the rice in yet, is the roof tied down — and only then did she tell him how things really were. That night he saved the neighbor's number and the village head's, and starred them both.

That "okay" — she was carrying it alone. One more question, and you carry it together.

The last time your mom said "okay," did you ask her anything after that?