“Don’t call me anymore, Mum, I’m busy!” I shouted into the phone. And she never called again…
My name is Heather Smith, and I live in Oxford, where the old spire stands as a silent reminder of the past. I’ll never forget that day. “Don’t call me anymore, Mum, I’m busy!” I blurted out, angrily hanging up. At the time, I thought I was justified. Work was relentless, deadlines loomed, and my nerves were frayed. Mum’s constant calls — her endless “Have you eaten? How’s everything? Are you tired?” — drove me up the wall. I felt suffocated by her concern and just needed space to live my own life. All I wanted in that moment was silence.
And Mum fell silent. She didn’t call that day, the next, or even the week after. At first, I didn’t notice — I was too wrapped up in my chaos. I found relief in that emptiness: no more dumb questions, no reminders that I wasn’t really in charge of my life. I thought I was free. Two weeks passed. One evening, sitting alone with a cup of cold tea, I suddenly wondered: why hasn’t her voice echoed in my mind? “Is she upset? Is it pride?” I pondered, glancing at the silent phone. No missed calls, no messages. Just emptiness.
I sighed and decided to call her. The phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. “Of course, since I dismissed her, now she’s ignoring me,” I muttered, irritated by her stubbornness. The next day, I called again — still silence. A cold knot formed in my chest. What if something had happened? Her words, once spoken warmly and softly, echoed in my mind: “I’ll always be here if you want to talk.” But what if she couldn’t be there anymore? My heart was gripped with fear.
I dropped everything — work, plans — and rushed to her cottage just outside of Oxford, where she’d lived in recent years. As I opened the door with my keys, my heart pounded in my ears. Inside was silent — a heavy, oppressive silence. I called out: “Mum?” — my voice trembled, but there was no reply. She lay on the bed, with the phone clutched in her lifeless hands. Her eyes were closed, her face peaceful, as if she were simply asleep. But I knew — she was gone.
On the bedside table sat a cup of tea — untouched, cold, a symbol of her loneliness. Beside it lay an old photo album. I opened it with shaking hands — on the first page was a picture of me as a child, sitting on her lap, her smiling as she held me. Tears blurred my vision, a lump formed in my throat. “When did this happen? Did she call me one last time? Did she want to say goodbye?” I grabbed her phone — my hands trembled feverishly. The last dialed number was mine. The date was the very day I told her to leave me alone. She listened. She never called again.
Now I call her. 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, and I had pushed her away — harshly, mercilessly. Work stresses and tasks — everything that seemed important crumbled into an abyss, leaving me with an emptiness that can’t be filled. She only wanted to care for me, but I saw it as a burden. Now I understand: her calls were the thread keeping us connected, and I severed it myself.
I wander around her house, touching her things — her old blanket, the worn mug, the album with photos where we’re happy. Every small detail screams about what I lost. Mum left without saying goodbye, because I didn’t give her the chance. My final words — “Don’t call me!” — became her sentence and my curse. I shout into the void, call out to her, but all I hear is the echo of my guilt. She will never call again, and I’ll never stop calling her — hoping that somewhere, beyond this life, she’ll forgive me. But silence is my eternal answer, and I now live with it, carrying this pain like a heavy cross.
