A week after Mom retired, she called me at seven in the morning.
I was still making coffee when my phone rang.
"Are you busy today?"
I looked at the clock.
"Not especially. Why?"
"I was thinking about going into town."
I smiled.
"All right. What do you need?"
"Nothing much."
She paused.
"I thought I might get a coffee."
I laughed.
"You don't need an excuse to get coffee, Mom."
"I know that."
She sounded amused.
"But I thought you might come with me."
I told her I'd pick her up in half an hour.
When I arrived, she was already waiting by the door.
She had her handbag over one shoulder and wore the same dark shoes she had worn to her retirement party.
I wondered whether she had chosen them deliberately.
They were comfortable shoes.
She had spent years standing in them.
We drove into town and parked near the coffee shop.
Mom looked through the window before going inside.
"I haven't been here in a while."
I held the door open for her.
"Then it's about time."
We ordered our drinks and found a table near the window.
Mom reached into her handbag and took out the small envelope.
The ten-dollar gift card was still inside.
She placed it on the table.
"I suppose I should use this."
I looked at her.
"You don't have to."
"I know."
She smiled.
"But coffee is coffee."
She handed the card to the cashier.
When she returned to the table, she looked pleased.
"That paid for both of them."
I laughed.
"Then it was a useful gift."
She nodded.
"Yes. It was."
We drank our coffee and watched people pass outside.
A delivery driver carried a box into the shop next door.
A woman hurried along the pavement with a child beside her.
An older man stopped to speak with somebody he knew.
Mom watched them all.
She had always been interested in people.
I realized that I had rarely thought about what it meant for her to lose the daily stream of students she had seen for decades.
The cafeteria had given her a reason to get up every morning.
It had given her work to do, people to look after, and a place where her presence mattered.
Now she had to decide what to do with the hours that had once belonged to the school.
"Do you miss it?" I asked.
Mom looked at her cup.
"Some parts."
"Which parts?"
"The children."
She smiled faintly.
"Even the noisy ones."
I laughed.
"Especially the noisy ones?"
"Don't be silly."
She took another sip.
"I miss knowing what the day is going to look like."
I understood that.
For forty-two years, she had followed the same basic rhythm.
Get up.
Go to work.
Prepare food.
Serve lunch.
Make sure the children were taken care of.
Now the rhythm was gone.
"Have you thought about what you want to do?" I asked.
She shrugged.
"I'll find something."
I knew that answer.
It was the same one she had given when Dad died and people asked whether she needed help.
She would find something.
She always did.
But this time, I wanted her to think about what she wanted rather than what other people needed.
"You could take a few weeks to do nothing."
She looked at me as if I had suggested something unreasonable.
"Nothing?"
"Nothing important."
She laughed.
"I wouldn't know how."
I smiled.
"Then you can practice."
She shook her head, but she was still smiling.
After coffee, we walked through a small shop nearby.
Mom stopped to look at a display of kitchen towels.
She touched the corner of a blue one.
"This would be useful."
I watched her.
She was retired, but she still noticed practical things first.
She bought the towel and tucked it into her handbag.
Outside, we passed a group of teenagers standing near the corner.
One of them laughed loudly.
Mom turned toward the sound.
For a second, I saw the cafeteria worker she had been for most of her adult life.
She seemed to be listening for the bell that would send students toward lunch.
Then she smiled at herself.
"They're probably hungry."
I laughed.
"Probably."
She looked at me.
"Old habits."
We walked back to the car.
On the drive home, she told me about the coffee shop and the people she had seen.
She asked about my work.
She reminded me to call if I needed anything.
At her house, I carried the shopping bag inside.
The flowers from her retirement party were still on the table, though some of the petals had begun to fall.
Mom straightened the vase.
Then she looked at me.
"Thank you for coming with me."
I hugged her.
"Anytime."
I left that morning thinking retirement would be difficult for her in ways I had not considered.
She wasn't only leaving a job.
She was leaving a daily routine built around caring for people.
I couldn't give that routine back.
But I could make sure she didn't have to fill the quiet hours alone.
Click here to continue reading: PART 22: When Daniel’s Visit Was Mentioned Again, Mom Admitted She Had Never Expected a Hungry Student to Remember Her After All Those Years
The Small Envelope on the Table Looked Like a Fair Trade for Forty-Two Years of Work Until I Saw My Mother’s Hands
Part 21 of 24
