When the alarm clock rang at 3:00 a.m., the world outside my window was still steeped in thick darkness. I fumbled to turn it off, my fingertips brushing the cold metal, and a shiver ran through me. These seventy‑nine‑year‑old bones weren’t what they used to be.
Every time I got up, it felt like restarting a rusty machine, my joints groaning under the strain. I sat up slowly, reached for the cane by my bed, and made my way to the kitchen by the dim glow of the nightlight. Inside the refrigerator, a fresh chicken breast I’d been saving was sealed in a container.
It was an organic piece my old neighbor, Dr. Arthur, had brought me last week. He said it was free‑range, perfect for a nourishing broth.
Daniel had been working so much overtime lately. He needed something to keep his strength up. I muttered to myself as I carefully placed the chicken into the slow cooker, adding carrots, celery, and a few herbs.
Once the water boiled, I turned the heat down low, covered it, and let it simmer. The kitchen soon filled with the fragrant aroma of vegetables. I sat on a small stool, watching the bubbles rise through the glass lid, just like when I used to make soup for my son when he was young.
I remembered how frail and sickly Daniel was as a child. I’d often stay up all night tending to his fevers. After my husband passed, I raised our boy alone, working at the textile mill during the day and taking on sewing jobs at night.
During the hardest times, there were three straight months when I lived on nothing but peanut‑butter‑and‑jelly sandwiches. But I never let my son miss a single meal with meat. The broth in the pot slowly turned a rich amber color, and the sky outside shifted from black to gray.
I checked the wall clock. 4:50. It was time to go.
Daniel always woke up at six, and I had timed it perfectly so I could get there just as he was getting up, ready for his first warm bowl of soup. I carefully poured the chicken soup into a thermos and wrapped it in a thick wool scarf. The January wind cut like a knife.
Leaning on my cane, I shuffled step by step toward my son’s house. He and his wife lived in a new condo complex not far from my old place. What was normally a twenty‑minute walk now took me double the time.
The streets were nearly empty, save for a few sanitation workers sweeping the sidewalks. My fingers gripped the thermos tightly, terrified it would get cold. The arthritis in my left leg throbbed with pain, but I gritted my teeth and kept going.
The thought of my son’s face, warm and flushed after drinking the hot soup, made the pain seem insignificant. At 5:40, I finally stood before my son’s front door. The motion‑sensor light in the hallway flickered on, illuminating my face, red from the cold.
I took a deep breath, about to ring the doorbell, when I suddenly heard the sharp, mocking laughter of my daughter‑in‑law from inside. “Is your mother here with that soup again? Who would dare drink something from that old hag?
God knows what kind of filth she puts in it.”
My finger froze in midair, and my heart clenched. “Keep your voice down,” I heard my son, Daniel, say. There wasn’t a trace of anger in his voice—only a fawning, apologetic tone.
“She’s a little hard of hearing. She won’t hear you.”
“I don’t care. We have to throw it out this time.
The last batch gave me an upset stomach for two days. Do you think she does it on purpose? She just can’t stand to see us happy.”
“All right.
All right. We’ll toss it.”
Daniel’s words were like daggers in my heart. “Mom really is too much.
Coming over this early and waking us up. Tell her not to come anymore. Just looking at her is bad luck.
She’s almost eighty—who knows when she’ll just drop dead on our doorstep. How disgusting.”
“Mom, don’t come over anymore.”
My son’s words floated out light as air, yet they landed on my heart with the weight of a thousand pounds. I stood outside the door, my whole body trembling—not from the winter cold but from a chill that seeped from the very core of my being.
The thermos in my hand suddenly felt impossibly heavy. I slowly crouched down and placed it on the doormat in front of the door. As I turned to leave, the arthritis in my legs flared with sharper pain, but I didn’t dare linger, afraid they would open the door and see me.
During the few dozen seconds the elevator descended, I bit my lip so hard I thought it would bleed, fighting to keep the tears from falling. Stepping out of the building, the sky had begun to lighten. The streetlights in the complex were still on, casting hazy yellow halos in the morning mist.
I wandered aimlessly and, without realizing it, ended up in a small neighborhood park nearby. A thin layer of frost coated the benches, but I didn’t care about the cold. I collapsed onto one and finally let the tears I had held back for so long stream down my face.
“Helen.”
A familiar voice made me hastily wipe my eyes. I looked up to see my old neighbor, Dr. Arthur, standing before me in his jogging suit, his expression full of concern.
“What are you doing out here so early?” he asked, sitting down beside me. His gaze fell on my swollen eyes. “Did something happen?”
“It’s nothing,” I forced a smile.
“Just out for a walk.”
Dr. Arthur sighed. He clearly didn’t believe me but was kind enough not to press.
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