“Don’t call me again, Mum, I’m busy!” I shouted down the phone. And Mum didn’t call again…
My name is Caitlin Brown, and I live in Marlow, where the church tower stands solemnly on the Thames, a silent reminder of the past. I’ll never forget that day. “Don’t call me again, Mum, I’m busy!” I snapped into the phone, furiously slamming down the receiver. At the time, I felt justified. Work was overwhelming, deadlines were looming, and my nerves were stretched thin. Mum’s constant calls—her endless “Have you eaten? How are you? Feeling tired?”—drove me up the wall. I felt suffocated by her care, gasping for air to live my own life. At that moment, all I wanted was silence.
And Mum went silent. She didn’t call that day, the next, or even the following week. Initially, I didn’t even notice—I was too caught up in my chaos. I relished the emptiness: no one bothering me with silly questions, no reminders that I wasn’t my own boss. I felt free—or so I thought. Two weeks passed. One evening, sitting alone with a cold cup of tea, it suddenly hit me: why wasn’t her voice echoing in my mind? “Is she upset? Is it pride?” I wondered, glancing at my phone. No missed calls, no messages. Just emptiness.
I sighed and decided to call her myself. The phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. “Of course, since I brushed her off, she’s ignoring me now,” I huffed, irritated by her stubbornness. I tried again the next day—still silence. A cold lump formed in my chest. What if something had happened? Her words from long ago, spoken warmly, flashed in my mind: “I’ll always be there if you want to talk.” But what if she couldn’t be there anymore? My heart tightened with fear.
I dropped everything—work, responsibilities, plans—and rushed to her cottage near Marlow, where she’d lived for years. As I unlocked her front door with my keys, blood pounded in my ears. Inside, the silence was deathly, oppressive. I called out: “Mum?”—my voice trembled, but there was no reply. She lay on her bed, clutching the phone in her lifeless hands. Her eyes were closed, her face peaceful, as if she’d simply fallen asleep. But I knew—she was gone.
On the bedside table stood a cup of tea—cold, untouched, a symbol of her loneliness. Nearby, an old photo album lay open. With trembling fingers, I flipped it open—to the first page, where there was a childhood photo of me: young, sitting on her lap, her smiling face beaming as she embraced me. Tears blurred my vision, a lump formed in my throat. “When did it happen? Did she call me one last time? Did she want to say goodbye?” I grabbed her phone—my hands shaking feverishly. The last number dialed was mine. The date—the exact day I shouted for her to leave me alone. She listened. And called no more.
Now, it’s me doing the calling. Every day, every evening. I dial her number, listen to the never-ending ring, hoping for a miracle that won’t come. The silence on the line cuts sharper than a knife. I imagine her lying there alone, gripping the phone, waiting for my voice, while I cruelly pushed her away—thoughtlessly, mercilessly. Work, stress, ambitions—all that seemed important crumbled into a void, leaving me with an emptiness that can’t be filled. She just wanted to care for me, but I saw it as a burden. Now I see: her calls were the thread that bound us, and I severed it with my own hands.
I wander through her home, touch her things—a worn-out blanket, a chipped mug, a photo album filled with happy memories. Every little thing screams of what I’ve lost. Mum left without a goodbye because I didn’t give her the chance. My last words—”Don’t call me!”—became her sentence and my curse. I shout into the void, call for her, but all I hear is the echo of my own guilt. She’ll never call back, and I’ll never stop calling her—hoping that somewhere beyond, she’ll forgive me. But silence is my eternal answer, and now I live with it, carrying this pain like a heavy cross.”
