“Don’t call me again, mum, I’m busy!” I shouted down the line. And mum never called again…
My name is Chloe White, and I live in Stratford-upon-Avon, where Shakespeare’s echoes linger in the air, a silent testament to the past. I will never forget that day. “Don’t call me again, mum, I’m busy!” I snapped into the phone, slamming it down in anger. At that moment, I believed I was justified. Work was suffocating, deadlines were looming, and my nerves were frayed to their breaking point. Mum’s constant calls — her endless “Have you eaten? How’s it going? Are you tired?” — drove me up the wall. Her concern felt like a straitjacket, and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t live my own life. At that moment, all I craved was silence.
And mum fell silent. She didn’t call that day, or the next, or even the week after. At first, I didn’t even notice — I was too engrossed in my chaos. The emptiness felt liberating: no more silly questions, no one reminding me I wasn’t the boss of myself. I thought I was free. Two weeks went by. One evening, sitting alone with a cup of cold tea, I suddenly realized: why hadn’t I heard her voice in my head? “Is she upset? Too proud?” I wondered, glancing at the phone. No missed calls, no messages. Just emptiness.
With a sigh, I decided to call her. The phone rang and rang, but no one answered. “Of course, now that I’ve brushed her off, she’s ignoring me,” I huffed, frustrated by her stubbornness. I tried again the next day — more silence. A cold knot of fear began to form in my chest. What if something had happened? Her words echoed in my mind, once spoken softly and warmly: “I’ll always be here if you want to talk.” But what if she couldn’t be there anymore? My heart clenched with terror.
I dropped everything — work, plans, commitments — and rushed to her village near Stratford, where she had spent her later years. As I unlocked her door with my keys, my pulse pounded in my temples. Inside, it was silent — a heavy, oppressive silence. I called out, “Mum?” — my voice quivering, but there was no reply. She lay in bed, the phone clutched in her cold hands. Her eyes were closed, her face peaceful as if she’d just fallen asleep. But I knew — she was gone.
On her bedside table stood a cup of tea — untouched and cold, a symbol of her solitude. Beside it was an old album. I opened it with trembling fingers — on the first page, there was a childhood photo of me: sitting on her lap, she smiling as she embraced me. Tears blurred my vision, a lump formed in my throat. “When did it happen? Did she try to call me one last time? Did she want to say goodbye?” I grabbed her phone — my hands shaking as if with fever. The last number dialed — mine. The date — the very day I told her to leave me be. She obeyed. She never called again.
Now it’s me who calls. Every day, every evening. I dial her number, listen to the endless rings, hoping for a miracle that will never come. The silence on the line cuts deeper than a knife. I imagine her lying there alone, clutching the phone, waiting for my voice, while I had pushed her away — harshly, unkindly. Work, stress, tasks — everything that once seemed significant has crumbled into an abyss, leaving me with a void impossible to fill. She just wanted to care for me, and I saw it as a burden. Now I understand: her calls were the lifeline binding us, and I severed it myself.
I wander through her home, touch her things — the old blanket, the worn mug, the album of photos where we’re happy. Every little thing screams of what I’ve lost. Mum left without saying goodbye because I denied her the chance. My last words to her — “Don’t call me!” — became her sentence and my curse. I shout into the emptiness, call out to her, but all I hear is the echo of my guilt. She will never call again, and I won’t stop dialing her, hoping that somewhere, beyond the veil, she’ll forgive me. But silence is my eternal answer, and with that, I now live, bearing this pain like a heavy cross.”
