“Made with love”

When I was meditating I had the most beautiful image come to me—a woman decorating a cake for a young boy. You couldn’t see the boy, but I knew she was thinking of him, and filled with a deep love and affection for him. Her big strong arms slowly and delicately shaped the icing as she thought of the boy.

This moved me to tears.

My niece and nephew were coming to stay for a few days and Mum was baking up a storm. I wandered into the kitchen to make a coffee, and she remarked sulkily, “I’d better make the kids something, or they’ll hate me.” This would seem like a throwaway comment, but there is always some weight behind her words—and oftentimes a trap. The briefest exchange can be a minefield.

Mum is the least joyous person I’ve met. Moody and sullen. My room is next to the kitchen. I could hear and feel her crashing and stomping around.

She doesn’t enjoy baking, that’s clear—it’s performative, alongside a desperate need for us all to be witness to her virtuousness and prowess. She craves constant praise and validation from an adoring audience. You can’t sit through a meal without having to tell her how delicious it is with every mouthful.

So when Mum said to my nephew “This was made with love” I smiled wryly, and thought of the woman from my meditation.