After 21 years of marriage, one day my wife pulled me aside. She looked at me gently and said there was something she wanted from me: she wanted me to spend an evening with another woman. To take her out to dinner, and maybe to a movie afterward.
“I love you,” she said, “but I know she loves you too. And I want you to give her a little of your time.”
That other woman was my mother. She had been living alone for 19 years, ever since my father passed away. Between work, daily life, and my three children, I only visited her occasionally.
That very evening, I called her. I asked if she would like to go out to dinner with me.
“Is something happening?” she asked, surprised.
“No, nothing special,” I replied. “It’s just that… I’d like to spend some time with you. Just the two of us.”
On the other end, a long silence. Then her voice, emotional: “I’d really love that.”
The following Friday, I went to pick her up. I was a bit nervous; it had been a long time since we had gone out, just the two of us. She had dressed up, hair done, wearing the same dress she had worn for her last wedding anniversary with Dad. When she got in the car, her smile was that of a little girl.
“I told my friends I was going out with my son tonight… they were all curious. They want to know everything!”
We chose a simple, intimate little restaurant. She took my arm as if we were at a grand gala.
Sitting at the table, I read the menu aloud: her eyesight had grown weak, making the print hard to read. When I looked up, she was there, watching me with a tender expression.
“When you were little, I used to read the menu to you…”
“Then it’s only fair that now it’s my turn,” I replied.
We dined, chatting—not extraordinary, just us, our lives, our memories. We talked so much we forgot about the movie. But it didn’t matter. That evening was already perfect.
When I drove her home, she said: “I want to do this again. But next time… let me invite you.”
I smiled. “Promise.”
Back home, my wife asked: “How was it?”
“Better than I could have imagined.”
But that second outing never happened. A few days later, my mother passed away suddenly from a heart problem.
A few weeks later, I received an envelope. Inside was the restaurant receipt. She had already paid for two. Attached was a small note in her own handwriting:
“I didn’t know if there would be a next time, so I paid in advance. It’s for you and your wife. That evening meant a lot to me. I love you, my son.”
That day, I truly understood how much the little things matter.
How important it is to say “I love you,” and to make time for those who love us.
Because nothing in the world is more precious than that.
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