Illustration by Alex Chen
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Every Saturday morning, I wake up early with one thing in mind. I call my parents, who live in Beijing.
It has become such a habit that my body often wakes before the alarm. The house is quiet. My husband is still asleep. The light is soft. I make coffee and sit in the same place every time, phone in hand, before the rest of the day begins.
Sometimes, we see each other on video. Sometimes, it’s just an audio call. I’ve been doing this for the past 18 years – from Canada, from France, from the United States – from everywhere I’ve lived since leaving home. The geography has changed. The technology has evolved. The reason has not. I want to know that they are okay – physically and emotionally. And I want, perhaps even more urgently, to believe that nothing irreversible has happened since the last time we spoke.
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The calls are often about nothing. And yet, they are about everything.
We talk about the weather. The news. Blood pressure readings. What they ate that week. The exercises they are trying to keep up with. Families, relatives, neighbours. Small irritations. Big milestones. I tell them about my work, my travels, the books I’ve read. There is no expectation that the conversation needs to go anywhere. That absence of expectation is part of the relief.
I call them one by one. The conversations are different.
My father is thoughtful and reflective, generous with advice that is always offered gently. He keeps up with new technology faster than I expect – AI tools, smart watches – approaching each with curiosity. When he speaks, I listen for reassurance, for signs that he remains oriented toward the future.
My mother is warm and caring, always checking whether I’m eating well, sleeping enough, sounding tired. She remembers details I’ve long forgotten mentioning. And whenever I ask about her health, she tells me everything is perfectly fine – a version that rarely matches what my father has just shared. I don’t correct her. There are truths that feel too heavy to lift across continents.
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I’ve learned to listen less to the words than to the tone. A pause held a second too long. A brightness that arrives a little too quickly. These signals often say more than any direct question. They are about worry, about effort, about making sure we all can continue living our lives across the world with peace of mind.
For a long time, I told myself this ritual was enough. That presence might compensate for absence. I rarely asked whether it also allowed me to keep certain fears at bay.
I do travel back to Beijing every year to see them. The joy of hugging them when I arrive is real, but it is often quickly overtaken by the familiar weight of the goodbye at the end of a visit.
They are aging now. Not being able to drive them where they need to go, or sit down to share a meal during festivals, still breaks my heart. Distance has made absence feel physical – something I carry with me each day. There are moments when the routine feels thin, when the limits of what a phone call can do are painfully clear, when I realize that consistency has also been a way of delaying the full weight of what it means to be far away at this stage of their lives.
This weekend, the call felt heavier than usual. My aunt in Beijing died. I wanted to comfort my parents, I listened. I stayed on the line a little longer. Let the grief breathe. Still, when the call ended, I was reminded how distance reshapes care. I could be present, but not quite there. I could love deeply but still feel unable to help.
This is not the version of care I once imagined. It doesn’t look like being nearby. It doesn’t erase the guilt that comes with being far away. What it does bring into sharper focus is my gratitude – particularly toward my sister living in Beijing, who has quietly carried all the responsibility of caring for our parents for years and counting.
And still, this is the only version I can sustain – perhaps because it asks just enough of me to feel present, without asking me to confront everything that virtual presence can no longer do.
Over time, I’ve come to understand that love is not always expressed through closeness. Sometimes, it survives through repetition. Through small questions asked again and again. Through returning at the same hour every week, knowing that one day the ritual will end – and that its ending will arrive whether I am ready or not.
It doesn’t solve much. It doesn’t make distance disappear.
But for now, it keeps a life connected – one ordinary conversation at a time.
Maggie Wang Maric lives in Toronto.