Did You Feed The Fish?

The code I used with my parents was to call them up and ask, “Did you feed the fish?” We never had fish, and my parents knew that whenever I asked that, it meant something was wrong, but I couldn’t say it out loud. They’d instantly switch into serious mode, no questions asked.

It started when I was 14. I was walking home from school one afternoon when I realized someone was following me. I didn’t want to sound paranoid, but I got this awful gut feeling. I called my mom and asked, “Did you feed the fish?” She was quiet for a second, then replied, “Stay on the phone with me.” Since then, it became our secret signal—something that could be used quickly, in public, and no one would suspect anything.

Over the years, the code got used more often than I ever expected. There was the time I was stranded on a bad date and needed a way out. Another time, I was being cornered at a party by some guy who didn’t understand the word “no.” Every time, a quick, “Did you feed the fish?” saved me.

By the time I was in my late twenties, I had moved to the city, two hours away from my hometown. Life got busier. Calls became shorter. But the code remained. It wasn’t used often anymore, but just knowing I had it made me feel like a safety net was always there.

One Thursday evening, after a terrible week at work, I was walking home from the subway when I felt it again—that same creeping sense that something wasn’t right. I glanced behind me and saw a guy in a hoodie, walking at my pace. Maybe I was just being anxious. The city could do that to you.

Still, my stomach clenched.

I stepped into a coffee shop, pretending I needed something. He stopped too, standing outside the window, pretending to text. My fingers shook as I dialed my mom.

“Hey, sweetie,” she answered casually.

“Hey,” I tried to sound normal. “Did you feed the fish today?”

There was silence.

Then: “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just… just checking.”

“Stay on the line,” she said quickly. “Want me to pick you up some stuff for the weekend?”

Code for: Do you need me to come?

“Yeah, that’d be great,” I said, glancing out the window. The man was still there.

“We’ll be there in two hours. Go somewhere safe.”

“I’m heading home now. Just wanted to check in.”

I hung up and went straight to a busy bookstore nearby, losing the guy in the crowd.

That was the last time I used the code.

Two weeks later, my dad had a stroke. It was sudden. No warning. One minute he was helping my mom fix the porch light, the next he collapsed. They got him to the hospital in time, but everything changed after that. His speech was slow. His right hand shook when he tried to hold a fork. My mom, strong as she was, aged ten years in two months.

I started visiting every weekend, sometimes bringing groceries or helping with bills. My dad insisted he was fine, but I knew better. I saw the fear in his eyes whenever he forgot a word or dropped a plate.

Then came a day in June when my phone rang during a meeting. It was my mom.

I answered quickly, stepping into the hallway.

“Did you feed the fish?” she asked.

I stopped cold.

“What?”

“Did you feed the fish?” she repeated, her voice lower this time.

My heart pounded. She never used the code before.

“I’ll be there in two hours,” I said without hesitation.

I drove like a maniac. My thoughts went wild. Did someone break in? Did something happen to Dad again?

When I got there, the house was quiet. Too quiet.

I rushed in. “Mom? Dad?”

My mom came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. She looked pale.

“It’s your father,” she whispered. “He wandered off.”

“What do you mean?”

“He took the car. I was in the bathroom. He just… left. He hasn’t driven since the stroke. He hasn’t even asked to.”

I froze.

“Did he take his phone?”

“No. Wallet’s still here.”

We called the police. Filed a report. The hours dragged on like a nightmare. That evening, a sheriff found him two towns over, parked outside a fishing supply store. The car was fine. He was fine. But when they asked him what he was doing, he said he was going to feed the fish.

That’s when it hit me—he remembered.

The code. Our code. He remembered it.

I don’t know if it was instinct, or if he was trying to tell us something, but it felt like a sign. He wasn’t gone completely.

After that, I started spending more time back home. I took remote work days, stayed over longer weekends. My mom needed the help, and I felt a pull I couldn’t ignore anymore.

One evening, we were all sitting on the porch—Dad in his favorite chair, Mom with a glass of iced tea, and me watching the sun go down.

Dad turned to me suddenly and said, “Did you feed the fish?”

My mom and I looked at each other.

“Yeah,” I smiled. “They’re doing great.”

He nodded, as if that settled something inside him. And for a while, things felt okay.

That fall, I started renovating the old shed in the backyard into a mini art studio. I’d always loved painting, but never had the space. My mom helped me clear it out, and my dad, even with his shaking hand, insisted on painting one of the walls.

It was slow, messy work, but he laughed the whole time. It was the first time he looked alive again.

A few weeks later, he fell while getting out of bed. Another hospital trip. Another decline. The doctor said it was progressive, and we should be prepared.

So we prepared.

We got the handrails, the chair lift for the stairs, the med schedule.

But nothing could prepare us for what happened next.

My job offered a promotion—double the pay, a move to a new city. It was everything I had worked for. I didn’t tell my parents right away. I needed time to think.

Then, one morning, I got a text from an unknown number: “Did you feed the fish?”

I stared at it. My stomach dropped.

I called home. My mom picked up.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“Did you send me a message?”

“No…”

I hung up and called the number back. No answer.

I didn’t sleep that night. Something felt off. I couldn’t explain it.

The next morning, my mom called.

“Your dad had a seizure. We’re at the hospital.”

I drove down immediately. When I got there, she was sitting by his bedside. He was conscious, but tired.

“He asked me something weird this morning,” she said softly. “He asked if the fish were still hungry.”

I nodded, fighting tears.

That was the last conversation I had with him. He passed two nights later.

The funeral was small. Just family and a few neighbors. My dad never liked big events.

Afterward, I found myself sitting on the porch alone. The wind rustled the trees. The house felt different. Quieter. Hollow.

My mom joined me, holding two cups of tea.

“He loved that code, you know,” she said.

I smiled. “I know.”

“He said once, ‘If she ever stops calling to feed the fish, I’ll know she’s really okay.’”

We sat in silence.

I didn’t take the promotion. I turned it down.

Instead, I asked my company for a transfer. They agreed to let me work remotely, with some visits to the local office they had in town.

I moved back home.

Not just for my mom, but for me too.

The little art studio became my sanctuary. I started painting again. Even held a few exhibitions in town.

One day, I received a package at the door. No return address. Inside was a small, wooden fish sculpture with a note that read, “You remembered.”

I asked around, but no one knew anything about it.

A few months later, I was invited to speak at a local school about art and creativity. At the end of the talk, a teenage girl came up to me. She looked nervous.

“You don’t remember me,” she said, “but years ago, you helped me.”

I blinked.

“I was at that bookstore. The day you hid there. You were on the phone, crying. I saw you. And I realized I wasn’t alone. I started using a code with my mom too.”

I was speechless.

“Thank you,” she added, then walked off.

I never learned her name.

But in that moment, I felt something shift.

It made me realize that we never truly know how far our actions ripple.

My dad thought the code was just for emergencies. But it became more than that. It became a lifeline. A reminder that someone was always there.

Even now, years later, I still catch myself picking up the phone when I’m overwhelmed, my finger hovering over “Mom” in my contacts.