Last Tuesday, after work!

Last Tuesday, after work, I stopped at the supermarket. She was tired, tense, and irritable. The cart I grabbed creaked so loudly with every step that people turned to look. I thought about changing it, but I didn't. I kept pushing it anyway. At the end of the bread aisle, I saw an elderly gentleman trying to handle some cans. One fell from his hands. Then another. I ran to help him, mainly because everyone else pretended not to see. When I returned the cans, he smiled slightly and said to me: "My hands don't obey me like they used to." I noticed his worn coat, faded cap, and swollen fingers. His cart contained only inexpensive products—store brands, nothing beyond the essentials. Something about him touched me. He thanked me again and added in a low voice: "My daughter works two jobs. My son lives far away. I tell them I'm fine… but lately that 'fine' is very far from the truth." My throat tightened… I asked if she needed help with the rest of the groceries. He shook his head. “I don’t want to bother anyone.” We went our separate ways. At the checkout, he was in front of me. He counted the money slowly, apologizing to the cashier: “Sorry… I thought that would be enough.” It wasn’t. He started taking out some of the groceries—beans, flour, eggs—one by one. I stepped forward and said: “I’ll pay.” He panicked. “No, no. I don’t accept charity.” So I lied. “There’s a senior citizen discount today that I can apply with my loyalty card. If I take out these items, it won’t work.” It wasn’t true, but he believed me. His shoulders relaxed. “God bless you,” he whispered. Outside, he turned to me. “You remind me of my daughter. She’s also very good… I just don’t want her to worry about me.” I asked if she knew he was going through a hard time. He looked away. “Parents don’t like to admit it. We want our children to live—not to feel guilty.” I watched as he loaded the groceries into an old car with a cracked bumper. He waved and drove away. On the way home, the guilt hit me hard… I felt suffocated. That morning, my own father had called me. I didn’t answer—I was too busy and out of time. He left a message: “I hope you’re eating well. I miss you.” I turned the car around and went straight to my parents’ house. My father opened the door in slippers and an old sweater. His smile was tired, but full of affection. “Hi, daughter… what a surprise!” The refrigerator was almost empty. Not because there was a lack of food—but because there was a lack of energy. I asked why he never told me he felt lonely. He shrugged. “I don’t want to bother you. You have your own life.” I thought of the man at the supermarket. Of the creaking cart. Of all the lost connections. Then I prepared dinner. We ate together at the little table where I grew up. He told old stories I had forgotten. He laughed at jokes that weren’t funny. He hugged me twice before I left. And I realized something important: Parents don’t stay silent because they stop loving. They stay silent because they don’t want to burden us. They downplay their needs. They hide their loneliness. They say “I’m fine” even when they’re falling apart. Our task is to listen beyond the words. To be present before the refrigerator is empty. To answer the calls. To visit—even when we’re tired. Because one day, the chair in front of us will be empty. So, if you’re reading this, call your parents today. Not because they asked you to. But that's because they'll never ask. They just don't want to bother!