Instead of Asking, “How Are Yo

It’s strange how a simple question—
"How have you been, Mom?"
—can feel so heavy some days.

I think about calling her, my mother who lives alone in a quiet village.
But the days pass, and I find myself hesitating.
Work piles up, the children need my attention, and I barely have time to breathe.
And so, another day ends in silence.

My siblings are just as busy.
Once in a while, a message appears in the family group chat:
"How’s Mom doing these days?"
But I’m the only one who actually visits.

I don’t blame them.
We’re all simply surviving.
But being the eldest son, I carry an invisible duty.
Every weekend, I pack up homemade side dishes and head to the countryside.

Friday night after work, I go grocery shopping.
Mom’s favorite dishes—braised cod, seasoned garlic stems, soy-marinated beans—
I cook them slowly, letting them cool before placing them into containers.
I check the weather: it’ll rain tomorrow.
I pack an umbrella, some clean clothes, and load a bag of rice into the trunk.

When I arrive at her house early Saturday morning,
Mom is already waiting outside.
One hand resting on her gardening tool,
the other waving gently as I pull in.
“You’ve gotten tanner,” she says with a smile.
Just like that, I swallow every complaint I had prepared.

The kitchen is warm, and empty containers line the shelves.
I fill them with fresh food,
a quiet routine of care and unspoken love.
In this moment, I am not just her son—
I am her weekend.

We walk out to the field together.
The garden’s smaller now than it used to be.
She’s been downsizing.
Still, she insists on planting a few rows—
“It keeps me moving,” she says.

I know she keeps it going,
so I have a reason to come back.

After lunch, she naps lightly while I sit nearby scrolling through my phone.
For a moment, the stillness feels strange.
Time slows down here.
There’s no honking, no meetings, no rush.
Just the smell of rice cooking,
and the chirping of crickets in the yard.

She doesn't ask questions.
Not about my job, my struggles, or the bills.
She just says,
“Take some kimchi before you go,”
and, always,
“Drive safely.”

On the way back, I stop at a rest area.
I send a photo of Mom to the family group chat.
“She looked better today,” I write.
A message comes back:
“Thanks, hyung.”

My throat tightens.
I grip the steering wheel and take a deep breath.

Instead of asking, “How are you?”
I visit her every weekend.
I plant small seasons in her garden—
and she, in turn, nurtures my heart with quiet, enduring love.


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#WeekendInTheCountryside #MotherAndSon #KoreanFamilyLife #QuietMoments #ElderlyCare #KEmotions #KoreanHeart