Every Sunday, my mom sends the same message in our family group chat: “Dinner at 6. Bring tupperware.” She’s never missed a week.

So when I woke up to a message at 10 a.m. that said, “PLEASE DON’T COME TODAY,” my stomach dropped.

No emoji. No explanation.

I asked if she was okay. She left me on read. Minutes later, my brother texted: “She’s not answering. Have you heard from her?”

We rushed to her house. I arrived first, used my spare key, and braced myself for the worst. The house was still—curtains drawn, no music, no familiar kitchen smells. The silence felt wrong.

I found her sitting at the kitchen table, holding a cold mug, staring out the window.

“I’m okay,” she said quickly. “I’m just… tired.”

Not sick. Not hurt. Just overwhelmed.

She told us that hosting Sunday dinner—something she loved—felt impossible that morning. The routine had become a promise she felt she couldn’t break, even when she needed rest. She sent the shortest message she could and hoped we’d understand.

My brother arrived, and the three of us sat quietly, talking about how hard it can be to ask for space when you’re used to giving.

That night, the group chat chimed again: “Dinner postponed. Thank you for understanding.”

The next Sunday, dinner returned—not because it had to, but because she wanted it to.

Now the message still comes most weeks. Sometimes it changes.

And every time we bring tupperware, we bring a little more patience, too.