No matter how old we become, we can still call them 'Holy Mother'

Host: The hospital corridor was quiet — that kind of stillness that doesn’t belong to peace but to exhaustion. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and flowers, of lives paused between visits and machines that hummed like background prayers.

Outside, snow was falling — soft, slow, unhurried — blanketing the world in a silence so thick it made the fluorescent lights inside seem harsh, unkind.

Jack stood by the window, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, his reflection pale against the glass. He looked older tonight — not from age, but from something heavier: recognition.

Jeeny sat in one of the plastic chairs lining the hallway, a paper cup of coffee between her palms, her eyes distant. Between them, the sound of a heart monitor from a nearby room pulsed like a reminder that time was still moving.

On the table beside her lay a small, worn book — The Human Zoo by Desmond Morris. A folded page bore the quote that had brought them here, or maybe had just found them here:

"No matter how old we become, we can still call them 'Holy Mother' and 'Father' and put a child-like trust in them."

Jeeny read it aloud softly, her voice a tremor of warmth in the sterile air.

Jeeny: “You ever think about that, Jack? How no matter what happens — success, heartbreak, age — we still turn small again when they look at us.”

Jack: (quietly) “I used to think that was weakness.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think it’s the only honest part left in us.”

Host: The snow outside thickened. A nurse passed by, her shoes squeaking softly on the linoleum, her expression carved in professionalism — not unkind, but practiced. The world, in its simplest form, kept moving around two people standing still.

Jeeny: “She’s asleep now, isn’t she?”

Jack: (nods) “Yeah. Doctor says the night will be quiet. Maybe a good sign.”

Jeeny: “You look like you haven’t slept either.”

Jack: (half-smiles) “Didn’t know grown men still waited outside hospital rooms like boys in trouble.”

Jeeny: “We all turn into children when we’re waiting for news about our parents.”

Jack: “Yeah… funny, isn’t it? You spend your whole life trying to outgrow them. And then the moment you think you have, something like this happens — and suddenly you’d give anything to be five years old again, sitting on the kitchen floor, watching her make soup.”

Host: Jeeny sipped her coffee, the steam fogging her glasses for a moment. She didn’t interrupt. Some silences are too sacred for comfort.

Jeeny: “Desmond Morris wasn’t being sentimental, you know. He studied people like animals — stripped of their manners and excuses. And he found that even the strongest, most self-made person still seeks that parental gravity — that one pair of eyes that says, ‘You’re safe. You’re still mine.’”

Jack: (softly) “Safe. Yeah. That’s what this place doesn’t have. Machines, medicine — they heal the body. But they don’t make you feel safe.”

Jeeny: “That’s because safety’s emotional, not physical. We don’t outgrow the need for it. We just learn to hide it behind other words — success, independence, control.”

Jack: “Control’s a good disguise.”

Jeeny: “Until life rips it off. Then all that’s left is the child again — hoping Mom or Dad can fix the universe.”

Host: The snowlight filtered through the window now, coating their faces in a faint silver glow. For a long while, neither spoke. They both knew some truths didn’t need language; they only needed presence.

Then Jack sighed — not heavily, but like something old was finally loosening.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my dad used to fix everything. The toaster, the car, the TV. He’d say, ‘There’s nothing that can’t be mended if you’re patient.’”

Jeeny: “And was he right?”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “He was wrong. But he made me believe he was right — and maybe that’s what mattered.”

Jeeny: “Because belief is its own medicine.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s funny. We spend half our lives proving we don’t need them, and the other half hoping we haven’t proven it too well.”

Jeeny: (softly) “That’s the tragedy of growing up. We trade the comfort of dependence for the illusion of control.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, each second slow and deliberate. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed — the kind of weary laugh that comes only from waiting rooms and midnight.

Jeeny leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her tone thoughtful.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s what Morris meant. Not just about parents — about anyone who becomes that holy presence in your life. The ones who make you feel small again, but in the safest way possible. The ones who remind you that love doesn’t expire when power shifts.”

Jack: “You mean the people who make you feel like home still exists.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And that you can still find it in a pair of hands that once buttoned your coat before school.”

Jack: (smiling) “You talk like you’ve still got yours.”

Jeeny: “I do. My mother still calls every Sunday to tell me I’m too thin. It’s her way of saying she still sees the child in me.”

Jack: “And you?”

Jeeny: “I let her. Because one day, she’ll stop — and I’ll give anything to hear it again.”

Host: Jack turned toward the window, his reflection merging with the falling snow — half here, half memory. He spoke more quietly now, each word deliberate, like something precious being unwrapped.

Jack: “You know, when I walked into her room tonight, I thought about all the things I never said. All the years I treated her love like gravity — always there, unnoticed, holding me up. And then I realized something: gravity doesn’t stop working just because we forget to thank it.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful.”

Jack: “It’s true. Even when we rebel, even when we run, they’re still the center we orbit. Holy Mother. Father. The words sound old-fashioned, but they fit. Because love that patient — that unrelenting — is holy.”

Host: The hallway light flickered once. The snow outside softened to a fine dust.

Jeeny set her empty coffee cup down and reached over, placing her hand over his.

Jeeny: “You should go back in. She’ll wake soon. And when she does, she’ll want to see that you’re still her boy — not the man who built walls around his grief.”

Jack: (nodding) “Yeah. Maybe I need that too.”

Jeeny: “Go on, then. Be the child for a while. The world can wait.”

Host: He stood, hesitating for a moment, his eyes wet but alive. Then he walked slowly down the hall toward his mother’s room.

Jeeny watched him go, her reflection in the window merging with the glow of dawn beginning to stretch its fingers across the snow.

She whispered to herself — half prayer, half understanding.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what growing up really means — not losing the child, but learning when to let it speak again.”

Host: Inside the room, a faint voice stirred — soft, familiar. A mother calling her son’s name.

Jack’s voice answered, quiet but sure.

The snow kept falling, the world kept turning, and somewhere in the fragile space between love and memory, Desmond Morris’s words found their perfect echo:

"No matter how old we become, we can still call them ‘Holy Mother’ and ‘Father,’ and put a child-like trust in them."

And for a moment — just a moment — all the years, the distance, the pride,
fell away.

Leaving only that most human truth:
that to need love
is never childish —
only sacred.