In this episode Aaron shares a story about a family friend: In 1990, a young boy’s world changed forever when his father suddenly disappeared, leaving his mother to hold the family together with double shifts and a simple morning ritual. Decades later, during a strained Thanksgiving reunion, the son discovers a small but profound reminder of those quiet mornings—a gesture that speaks louder than words ever could. This episode explores the power of routine and how even the smallest gestures can bridge the gap between past and present.
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Story created & performed by: Aaron Calafato
Senior Audio Engineer: Ken Wendt
Additional vocals: Cori Birce
Art: Pete Whitehead
Original Music: thomas j. duke
Transcript
Aaron Calafato:
So my dad told me a story many years ago, about a mother and her son. It's one of those stories you'll never forget. And now I'm going to tell it to you—right after the music.
The story starts with a mother, a father, and a young son. One day, out of nowhere, the father left—no notice, no clue, just gone. The mother and son were devastated in their own ways.
The mother had to figure out how to keep the household running, pay the bills, and provide for her son. So, she worked double shifts, day in and day out. It wasn’t a lot of money, but it was enough to get by. She felt an overwhelming sense of guilt because, more than anything, she wanted to spend meaningful time with her son. But she knew if they lost the house, there would be no place to share those moments.
They didn’t have much support. They were transplanted to a new city and didn’t know anyone. They only had each other.
On the son’s side, as he grew up—five years old at the time—he didn’t understand why his mom was always gone. He didn’t have all the facts. But even if he did, it wouldn’t have mattered. He missed his mom, and a seed of resentment began to grow in him for her not being there.
They never talked about it, but they did their best to live with it.
Despite this, they had one good hour together five days a week, early in the morning. The mom would go into the son’s room at around five o’clock, open the door, and say, “Hey, wake up. It’s time for breakfast and your comics.”
She started this tradition early on, when he was just in kindergarten or first grade. She’d wake up at least two hours earlier than she needed to for work, get her son ready, and they’d hop in their old clunker of a car. They would drive to their favorite breakfast spot through the drive-thru. The mom would order a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich and a coffee—one cream, one sugar. The kid would get hotcakes, sausage, and a chocolate milk.
Then she’d go to one of those old paper vending machines, get the morning paper, and pull out the comics section for him. His favorite was Calvin and Hobbes. They would park the car, watch the sun rise, and sit in silence—him reading the funnies, her reading the paper. You could smell the coffee and breakfast, but they were together, sitting in that car as a family.
This tradition continued until the son was a senior in high school. He finally saved up enough money to buy his own beat-up car, and he started driving himself to school. That meant no more early drives with his mom. And that distance, the things left unsaid, just continued to grow.
Because of his hard work, he got a full-ride scholarship to a college out of state. The deal between him and his mom was that he’d go, get his degree, and then come home and reassess so they could spend more time together.
But when he went off to college, he met the woman who would become his wife. He didn’t come back home. After he graduated, he got a great job in finance, got married, and had a daughter. He and his family would visit his mom four times a year—holidays. Then it became two times a year. Then they started skipping every other year.
It felt like a natural continuation of the distance between them, until one day, his mother called him and let him have it. She said, “I spent my whole life supporting you, taking care of you, doing everything I could to give you the life you have. And all I ask is that you come visit me from time to time.” She told him how hurt she was.
The son was shocked by this, but he also said, “Hey, Mom, that’s great that you want to spend time with me now, but where were you when I needed you? I know you were working, but I just wanted you.”
They argued for a bit, but finally, the son gave in and said, “Fine, we’ll come for Thanksgiving.”
The day before Thanksgiving, the son, his wife, and his little girl showed up at his mom’s house. They greeted each other and hugged in the kitchen. His wife and daughter went upstairs to settle in, leaving just the mother and son standing there awkwardly.
The son was about to say something—maybe apologize—but before he could, his mom said, “Wait.” She walked over to a drawer, pulled out a small booklet, and handed it to him. “Don’t say anything. I just want you to have this,” she said.
He opened it. It was filled with hundreds of pages of laminated receipts.
He asked, “Mom, what are these? Coupons?”
They were receipts from every breakfast they’d ever had together. She’d saved them all.
Before he could say anything, she hugged him and said, “I was never great at saying ‘I love you.’ But I wanted you to have this.”
They went on with the small talk and Thanksgiving festivities, but the son couldn’t shake the moment. The only thing he could think to do was this: the day after Thanksgiving, when they were supposed to leave that afternoon, he woke up at about 5 a.m., went to his mother’s bedroom door, and knocked.
“Hey, Mom, do you want to go get some breakfast?”
She sat up, smiling in a way she hadn’t since she was a little girl, and said, “Of course. But we can’t forget the morning paper. And son—this time, you drive.”
