This weekend started off like any other:  one of those easy, predictable Saturdays that you don’t think twice about. The kind you almost take for granted. The boys were up early, full of their usual weekend energy, and I had a quick parent-teacher meeting to get to. So, I bundled them into the car and dropped them off at my parents.

Mom and Dad were already up, coffee mugs in hand, chatting like they always do when I pop in. Mom greeted us at the door, cheerful as ever, and the boys darted straight for the lounge. Everything felt so normal the kind of normal that now feels like a gift.

I left, hugged Mom, told her I’d see her later, and dashed off to my meeting. When I returned to fetch the boys, they were still sitting quietly in the lounge not a toy out of place, not a cushion upside down. Mom laughed as I walked in, teasing about how unusually well-behaved they’d been. “No running, no shouting I think I might keep them here permanently,” she joked. We all laughed, completely unaware that by that evening, everything would feel different.

A few hours after we got home, my phone buzzed with message. It was my sister: “Taking Ma to hospital.”

My heart sank.

I don’t even remember the drive back only the feeling of urgency, that quiet panic that settles in your chest when something isn’t right. My mind was racing, but I kept glancing in the rearview mirror at my six-year-old, his eyes big with questions. Saturdays are our family days and explaining to him why I suddenly needed to rush back to “Ma” was a moment I’ll never forget.

Later, after the doctors confirmed that Mom had suffered a heart attack, I felt the weight of it all the shock, the helplessness but I tried to stay calm for the boys. Mom, ever the strong one, insisted on seeing her “balletjies” her special nickname for my eldest. We video called her from home. She looked tired, pale, but still managed a smile.

The boys waved, and the little one completely oblivious stuck out his tongue at her, making her laugh. It was a small, beautiful moment amid all the fear. They said their goodnights, and I thought that was that. But then, a few minutes later, I heard a soft sniffle from behind the couch.

When I turned around, he was crying, really crying his little chest heaving with guilt and confusion. Through sobs he said, “It’s my fault, Mommy. If I just listened to Ma all the time, she wouldn’t have gone to hospital.”

My heart broke right there. The innocence of that logic, the purity of his love, it unravelled me. I pulled him close, whispering that it wasn’t his fault, that Ma just needed some rest. Desperate to lighten the heaviness, I told him she was there because she hadn’t eaten enough vegetables.

He looked up, eyes still wet but suspiciously narrowed. “Vegetables, Mommy?” he asked, in that way that tells me he’s not buying it, but also wants to believe me. I nodded solemnly. “Yes. That’s why it’s important to eat them so your heart stays strong.”

He thought for a moment, then nodded back, accepting it for now. Later that night, when I made dinner, he quietly asked for a second helping of veggies. Between mouthfuls he said, “You need to look after yourself too, Mommy. So when you’re old, you don’t have to go to hospital.”

And that’s when I realized: in one day, my little boy showed more empathy, more love, and more understanding of life’s fragility than I ever could have imagined.

This weekend didn’t go as planned. But it reminded me that behind all the running, playing, and wild energy there’s a heart in that little boy that beats so big, it could move mountains.”

tracy-lynn.ruiters@inl.co.za

Weekend Argus 

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