‘What would you like for Mother’s Day?’ the children ask me.
‘Just you,’ I say, ‘and a homemade card.’
‘That’s not enough!’ they say, outraged on my behalf, ‘you need a proper present!’
When I was little I used to ask my mother the same question, and receive the same answer in return. I was at once relieved and disbelieving: it was surely a lie? Who would want a badly drawn card, when they could have chocolates, or flowers, or jewellery?
But it turns out my mother was telling the truth. A homemade card is all I want. Knick knacks and fripperies are for birthdays and Christmas; for Valentine’s Day and for ‘just because’ days. Presents and flowers that require the intervention of an adult have no place on my Mother’s Day wish list.
Instead I drink in the whispers I hear behind closed doors. The sound of sticky tape torn with teeth; the tell-tale traces of felt-tip on fingers. I close my eyes to the folded card in the corner of the playroom, and promise the children I didn’t catch a glimpse. I say yes to the fervent ‘may we use the glue please?’ and stop myself from checking to see how far it has spread. I wait.
They troop into the bedroom as soon as it gets light, chests swelled with pride, squabbling gently over who will hold their masterpiece. They present it as carefully as if it were a priceless vase, and stand back to watch my reaction. I cry, of course, and hug them tight. I tell them I love it; that I can’t think of anything I would rather have. And it is the truth.
Because when the children are grown, and the nest is empty, I will still have these cards. I will place my palm over the smudged picture, and trace the mis-spelt letters with my fingertip, and for a second I will have their childhood in my hands. I will know that they made their cards with glue and with paint and with love for their mother, and I will feel it as strongly as if their arms were still around me.
Have a wonderful Mother’s Day this Sunday.