Like clockwork, for decades, at precisely noon on Sundays, my mother would call. In fact, she was so regular in doing this that it would generate genuine concern if she was even a minute late.
I would look at Rona, she would look back at me with a worried face and I would ask, "I wonder if anything is wrong."
"She's probably on the phone with someone else," Rona would say, as much to calm herself as me.
Invariably, on those rare occasions, when she placed her call a few minutes after twelve, she would say, "I was on the phone with Harriet. She called and I couldn't rush her. I know you must be worried," she would say, "But I'm fine," and knowing we might be skeptical, she would add, "I am. I really am. Fine."
