“How’s Your Mom?”
I ran into an old friend at Target yesterday.
You know the type. Someone you haven’t seen in years. Someone who knew you before. Before life got complicated. Before everything changed.
We were both in the checkout lane. She looked up. Our eyes met. That split second of “do I know you?” followed by “oh my god, hi!”
We did the whole thing. The hug. The “you look great!” The “it’s been forever!”
And then she asked it.
“How’s your mom? Is she still doing that thing with the garden club?”
And my stomach dropped.
There’s this moment—this horrible, awkward pause—where you have to decide how to handle it.
Do I tell her? Do I just... redirect? Do I lie and say “she’s good” and then run away?
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
She kept talking. “I remember she used to bring those amazing tomatoes to the block parties. Is she still growing those?”
Oh god. She doesn’t know.
And now I have to tell her. In the middle of Target. In the checkout lane. With my cart full of toilet paper and frozen pizzas.
“She, uh... she actually passed away. A few years ago.”
Her face.
I will never forget her face.
The color drained. The smile disappeared. The immediate horror of realizing she just asked a dead person’s daughter about their tomatoes.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I—oh my god.”
And now she’s spiraling. And I’m standing there with my groceries trying to figure out how to make her feel better about my dead mom.
“It’s okay. Really. You didn’t know.”
“I feel terrible. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, seriously. It’s fine.”
It’s not fine. But what else am I supposed to say?
She kept apologizing. Over and over. Like she personally killed my mom by asking about her garden.
“I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I didn’t know. I should’ve—”
“It’s really okay. We lost touch. There’s no way you would’ve known.”
The cashier was scanning my items in complete silence. Pretending not to listen but 100% listening.
My friend was still going. “Was it sudden? Or—God, I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that. I just—”
“It’s okay. She was sick for a while.”
Why did I say that? Now she’s going to ask more questions.
She did. “Oh no. I’m so sorry. That must’ve been so hard.”
“Yeah. It was.”
The cashier handed me my receipt. I grabbed my bags. I needed to get out of this conversation before it got worse.
“Well, it was really good to see you,” I said, already backing away with my cart.
“You too! I’m so sorry again. About your mom. And the—yeah.”
“No worries. Take care!”
I basically ran to my car.
Threw the groceries in the trunk. Sat in the driver’s seat. And just... exhaled.
You’re going to have that conversation. Multiple times. With multiple people.
Old coworkers. Distant relatives. People from high school. Random acquaintances who knew you before but haven’t kept up since.
And every time, it’s awkward. Every time, you have to comfort them while also reliving your own loss.
And it’s exhausting.
Because I didn’t want to talk about my mom’s death in the Target checkout lane. I didn’t want to see my friend’s horrified face. I didn’t want to make her feel better about accidentally bringing up my dead parent.
I just wanted to buy my groceries and leave
.
But also? Part of me was glad she asked.
Because it means people remember her. That she made an impression on someone enough that they asked about her years later.
Even if it was about tomatoes.
Even if it was awkward as hell.
So yeah. It was uncomfortable. And sad. And I wanted to disappear into the floor.
But also... she asked about my mom. And for a second, I got to talk about her like she was still here.
And that’s something.
Even if it happened in the Target checkout lane. With frozen pizzas. And an audience.