“Happy Mother’s Day, if you’re a mom,” the smiling woman said.
I looked up from my plate and smiled back. She couldn’t tell I was a mother because in the small restaurant packed with families, I was the only person sitting alone.
“I am a mom,” I told her. “But my son lives pretty far away and he works weekends. So today, I’m on my own.” I didn’t feel sad about that. It was my first Mother’s Day without Ryan, but after all, he was grown up now and had a life of his own. It was bound to happen sometime.
The woman lingered a moment, making small talk as her big family found a booth and crowded into it.
“Do you live here?” she asked.
I explained that I’d grown up there in the beautiful rural valley, and now lived about an hour-and-a-half away.
“Coming here is a walk down Memory Lane, I said. "It never fails to make me happy.”
“I can see why,” she said. She had heard of the Fall River Valley. She and her family lived in Nevada, and owned a small plane. When her husband asked what she wanted to do for Mother’s Day, she said it would be fun to find a new place to eat in some tiny town. And that’s how they ended up there, having Mother’s Day brunch at Hal & Cathy’s Restaurant in the tiny farm town of Fall River Mills, California.
After a few moments, she wished me a nice day and moved on. I listened as she went to every table in the place, saying Happy Mother’s Day to each woman, young or old. Finally, she sat down with her family. I eavesdropped, as they said grace over the meal, and talked among themselves. They seemed to genuinely like each other.
I’d wanted a big family like that. But when Ryan was two, his father and I divorced and later, Ryan's dad passed away. So I raised our son alone. I’d learned one cautionary tale from single parents I knew. That was, always have a plan for holidays. Otherwise it is easy to lapse into depression. When the kids are really young, they can’t shop to buy you a birthday present. They can’t make a cake or even buy a cupcake. So many single parents I’d known dreaded special days. I didn’t want that to happen.
For me and Ryan, money was usually tight. So our special plans might’ve included a trip to the dollar theater and a feast of hot dogs and Cheetos. Or a hike at a place we loved followed by ice cream cones at the Frosty. When Ryan was really young, I’d do what most single parents do. I’d buy something small and tell him it was his gift to me. When he was a little older he’d save up some money and buy me a gift of some sort. Like the year he proudly presented me with a great big bottle of Elmer’s glue. He was so proud of himself. Me? I was puzzled, but pleased.
Later when Ryan was a teenager and full of moods and attitudes, he was broke. So I’d tell him what I really wanted for Mother’s Day was for him to wash my car. He’d roll his eyes, and get out the wash bucket.
As I sat there thinking back over those many holidays, and at the same time, listening to the woman and her big family, I did feel a little bit sad to be alone. But overall I decided, life was good. When I’d eaten more than my share of the all-you-can-eat buffet, I realized the busy waiter had not given me a bill. I went to the cash register, and told the guy there what I’d ordered.
“I had the Mother’s Day brunch.”
He smiled. “Just one moment,” he said, and he turned his back to me. When he turned back around he handed me a bill. Instead of a total, it said: “Happy Mother’s Day! The bill was taken care of for you. Have a great day.”
I was stunned, but I knew who had paid for my lunch. I turned towards the woman and her big family to thank them, and in unison they all said, “Happy Mother’s Day!” I managed to thank them well, but I was so choked up that I had to make a hasty exit.
All the way home, I kept that bill where I could see it and touch it. It truly warmed my heart. That was years ago, and that bill still hangs on my refrigerator. It’s a daily, cheerful reminder to look outside myself, look around and see who I can give a kind word, a friendly smile, or who I can bless by picking up the tab for their meal… just because.
At nearly 60 years old, with or without Ryan, I still make plans for every holiday. Alone or with friends and family, I enjoy every holiday with some sort of celebration. I’ve always been pretty good at that. But that Mother’s Day confirmed what I already knew. The real nugget of making a holiday great is in making it joyful for someone else… even a stranger.
Teresa Ambord is a former accountant and Enrolled Agent with the IRS. Now she writes full time from her home, mostly for business, and about family when the inspiration strikes.