Four days home, and not one real conversation

He went home for the holiday, planning to stay four days. Four days sounds like a lot — more than every rushed visit of the past year put together. Every morning he woke at ten, ate, then lay down again. Phone face-down on the pillow, screen still glowing at the edges.

It wasn't until the last day that his mother got one question in: so you're leaving tomorrow? He said yes. She didn't say anything after that, just got up and started packing food for him to take back to the city. All that evening he thought she was upset. She wasn't — she had simply run out of things to ask, because he had already closed every question she had.

Counting it up: four days at home, three sentences to his mother. Yes. I know. I've eaten. Nothing wrong with any of them — polite, even. They just all ended where they started, and left no opening for her to ask anything more.

On the bus he finally saw it: he had spent those four days resting. His mother had been waiting months, and not for him to come home and lie down. The bag of food, tied off with a rubber band, stayed on his lap the whole way — the only thing he actually brought back.

Four days lying down is fine. She was waiting for you to sit.

Next time he'll still be tired, still want to lie down. But setting aside one evening costs nothing. When was the last time you sat and really talked with your mother?