The best part of Mother's Day

Yesterday was the UK Mothering Sunday, now most often called Mother’s Day. But in contrast to Mother's Day, Mothering Sunday is not a celebration of motherhood, but a synonym of Laetare Sunday. During the sixteenth century, people returned to their "mother church" for a service to be held on the fourth Sunday of Lent. This was either a large local church, or more often the nearest Cathedral. Anyone who did this was commonly said to have gone 'a-mothering' although whether this preceded the term Mothering Sunday is unclear. It was often the only time that whole families could gather together, if prevented by conflicting working hours.

In later times, Mothering Sunday became a day when domestic servants were given a day off to visit their mother and other family members. In today's more secular times, it is generally celebrated as the British equivalent of America's Mother's Day.

And as a Mother I had a very special Mothering Sunday. Not just because of the lovely gifts the Offspring gave me – the CD now playing in the background as I write this and the book that I wish I had time to read. And the card with the silly ‘Perfect Parent’ badge that I was delighted to wear. But the best part of Mothering Sunday for me was the manila A4 envelope my son left with me – or, rather the contents of it.

I’ve always known my son could write. I suppose it was inevitable that he would follow both parents into word-obsession. Heredity will out. But most of the time his interest has been in script writing or thrillers. This short story was not like those. It was very short – only four typed pages long. But I read the first line and was hooked. At the start I thought it was humorous – then I read on and found it was growing darker. There were shadows creeping over the characters, slowly, subtly, the changes sketched in in tiny, beautifully drawn strokes. Soon I had a terrible sense of inevitability – of horror, but even that didn’t prepare me for the ending. Reading that I actually gasped out loud – and I was blinking back tears - tears for the characters, tears of delight and tears of pride.

I can’t post the story here – though I wish I could. It’s fabulous and in my opinion quite brilliant. Yes, I know this is my son I’m talking about and my pride was for that – but my admiration, critical acclaim, my sheer damn delight in reading – that was from one writer to another and it doesn’t matter who it was who wrote that story. I was stunned by how good it was and just so glad I read it.

So although I love the CD - and I wear the badge with pride. And I wish to blazes I was further on with the story I’m writing so I can read the book – the real, lasting, perfect and most wonderful gift my son gave me yesterday was some of the most amazing words I’ve read in a long long time. And a huge sense of joy.