All they’ll remember about me is the dead pigeon

I have been attempting to arrange a meeting with my son for weeks, but have not yet succeeded. He is very busy, and when he is not engaged, he has other priorities than visiting his mother. I concur entirely; he refers to it as ‘living life’. I have no objections, but I would like to know every now and then what he looks like, whether he has changed, whether he has grown taller: I believe he has, but in the corridor where I occasionally encounter him, there is insufficient light. Therefore, I proceed as follows: I prepare a substantial quantity—enough for six people—of dishes I think he will enjoy, vegan of course, and I leave them in the pot, covered. The following morning I find the pot half-empty or gone—it is a sign that he has been by and that he is doing well.

One evening, however, I encountered him briefly and observed that his hair had grown significantly, so I suggested scheduling an appointment at the hairdresser’s. He agreed, provided several available time slots, and I proceeded to book the appointment, taking a certain professional satisfaction in assisting my son. A few hours later, he texted to say, ‘No, I’m not free anymore – could you please cancel the appointment and book another one later on?’ ‘Of course, darling – I’m here to book your hairdresser appointments.’ I booked another appointment. A few hours later, he asked me again to cancel because, in the meantime, he’d changed his mind: he no longer wants to have his hair cut because this ‘bush’ is actually part of the vibe right now. I said, ‘Of course,’ and asked him if he was coming home for dinner. He didn’t reply. After dinner, I received a message from him: ‘I don’t think so.’

Do you not think about anything—about eating again, sleeping—or do you no longer consider yourself my son? I did not voice this because if I show I am offended, it is even worse; I become a burden, a nuisance to be avoided at all costs. I reason that sooner or later he will require something—perhaps advice. After glancing at several photographs from his childhood, I gather my courage, enter his room, collect socks, jeans and underpants from the floor, and start a wash cycle. Late in the evening, my son returns home and asks: ‘Where are my socks?’ ‘I’ve washed them,’ I reply. He insists they weren’t dirty. ‘But they were on the floor!’ ‘Yes, I’d left them there for a moment (three days) because I didn’t know where to put them.’

My dearest son, I am not here to contradict you; in fact, Voltaire and I actually appreciate this anti-bourgeois way of life of yours, but the socks were dirty, tangled up with other unwashed clothes, and you should thank me for taking care of them. Him: Mum, you’re far too traditional.

That is how it went: I had a loving little boy who would hold my hand and become upset if I did not take enough dips with him in the shallow water at the seaside, and now, from time to time, there is this man in the corridor with half-closed eyes and a mop of hair on his head who accuses me of being too traditional. He also accuses me of not having taken enough dips with him when he was little.

I have realised something significant: regardless of how hard I believe I have tried, what they will always remember about me is the squashed faeces or the dead pigeon I did not bury. The occasion when I said: ‘I don’t feel like having a bath.’ And now I am eager for him to invite me to bathe together, but it will not happen. It might happen, though, that he asks me to book him an appointment at the hairdresser’s when he fancies a change of hairstyle, so I cannot block him on WhatsApp.