I moved out, and Mother's Day just wasn't the same

Yesterday, for the first time I woke in a different house to my Mum on Mother's Day. I only live 20 minutes away from her so I didn't expect it to be too different to previous years. I was still planning to visit her for dinner and spoil her with presents. The only difference was that I'd head back to my place afterwards.

But the day brought up emotions I hadn't expected. My younger brother and my Dad had told me ahead of time that they'd have dinner covered. But they asked if I'd make dessert and specifically requested a family favourite, chocolate biscuit pudding (affectionately referred to as CBP in our house).

So I got up early on Saturday morning to make it and it was so different to making it at home. My roommate woke up while I was cooking and asked what I was making.

"Just dessert for Mother's Day dinner tomorrow," I said, knowing that she wouldn't understand if I replied with "CBP".

It was strange to be making CBP in a household where nobody recognised the dish or reacted to its making with the same level of enthusiasm as there would have been at my parents' house.

And for the first time in my life, making CBP was a sad and lonely affair. My brother had sent me the recipe earlier in the week and I realised as I fumbled through the process that my Mum has always made the chocolate mix. Despite having helped make CBP countless times as a child, I had no familiarity with that part of the recipe. It wasn't until I got to soaking the biscuits in milk and layering them with the chocolate mix into a serving dish that I knew what I was doing.

But at home, that's usually not something done alone. It would be my brother and I sitting at the kitchen table helping Mum. We'd be chatting and laughing and sneaking tastes of the chocolate mixture. Instead, I was alone in my apartment, sitting at the kitchen table in my pyjamas and making CBP in silence.

It was a sad and strange way to realise how much I've missed Mum since I moved out. I miss drinking never-ending cups of tea and chatting after our days at work. I miss having her drive me to the train station for a night out with my mates. I miss how patiently she'd listen to all my many complaints about the driver who cut me off, or the sales assistant who was rude, or the person at work who wasn't pulling their weight.

I'm so lucky that she's still just down the road from me. That she stocks my fridge with food to the point that I've barely had to cook since I moved out. That she still lets me borrow the car if I don't feel like carrying all my groceries home from the supermarket. But most of all, I'm lucky that I can still show up at home and know that there's a cup of tea and a hug always waiting for me.