The Boy, The Mother, and The Gifts: A Fable

There once was a boy with a deck of cards in his hand and hope in his heart. He wanted to learn how to play. Any game would do—something simple. Something that made him smile.

Each afternoon after school, he burst through the front door with his shoes untied and his thoughts spinning.

“Will you teach me today, Mama?” he asked, holding out the deck.

“Not today, sweetie,” she said, her eyes fixed on the television. “But tomorrow, I won’t be so busy.”

The boy nodded.

Tomorrow sounded close enough.

But tomorrow came. And went. And the day after that did, too.

Each time he asked, the answer was the same.

And each time, his face fell, just a little more.

One afternoon, the mother looked up. She noticed the way he walked past her. The way he held the cards like something that might vanish. She felt sorry. So she bought him a gift.

It was a toy helicopter—gleaming and green, with blinking lights and wings that spun like real ones.

The boy lit up. He flew it through every room.

He named it The Important Chopper. His mother had given it to him, after all.

So it must have been important.

She smiled at the sound of him laughing. Then she turned back to the television. And for a little while, all seemed well.

But the next day, the helicopter sat still.

And the boy asked again.

“Mama, will you teach me now?”

She glanced at him, just long enough to say, “Not today, sweetie. But tomorrow—I promise.”

That night, remembering the joy the chopper had brought, the mother went back to the store.

She came home with more gifts: a racetrack with flashing headlights, a castle with a drawbridge and a dragon, a telescope to see the stars.

The boy played. He laughed.

He made the dragon roar.

He counted stars until sleep carried him away.

But sometimes, when the house was quiet, he sat on his bed holding the cards—still unopened, still waiting.

Still, he asked.

And still, she said, “Tomorrow.”

The seasons passed.

The boy grew taller.

His voice deepened.

His questions came less often.

And then, one day, he packed his bags and left.

The mother hugged him tightly. She smoothed his collar. “Call me when you’re settled,” she said.

And then he was gone.

The house grew quiet. And cold.

Day turned to night.

Her son did not call.

Lonely, and needing something—anything—she wandered into his old toy room.

Everything was still there: The Important Chopper. The racetrack. The castle and the dragon. The telescope.

All of them packed into bins, waiting in the dark.

She sat on the floor and began to take them out. One by one, she lined them up all around.

She smiled softly, hoping the toys might lift her spirits, might bring her closer to her son. But they only brought more sadness.

Then her hand touched something small, rectangular, still wrapped in plastic.

The deck of cards.

She picked it up. Her smile faded.

She remembered his voice. The way he had asked. The way it had grown quieter, over time.

Tears welled in her eyes and slipped down her cheeks.

She sat there, holding the cards, for a long time.

Then she whispered, “He’ll call. He’ll make time for me.”

But even as she said it, she knew he might not. For she had given him so much, but not the things he had truly asked for.

Her time.

Her attention.

Her love.