“Don’t call me anymore, Mum, I’m busy!” I shouted down the phone. And Mum never called again…
My name is Wendy White, and I live in Henley, where the spire stands silent and tall over the Thames, a mute reproach to the past. I’ll never forget that day. “Don’t call me anymore, Mum, I’m busy!” I barked with frustration, slamming the phone down. At the time, it felt justified. Work was overwhelming, deadlines loomed, and my nerves were stretched to breaking point. Mum’s calls—her endless “Have you eaten? How’s things? Tired yet?”—drove me to distraction. Her care smothered me, and I felt suffocated, needing room to breathe and live life my own way. At that moment, I craved only silence.
And Mum fell silent. She didn’t call that day, nor the next, nor even a week later. At first, I didn’t notice—I was too buried in my turmoil. I relished the quiet: no trivial questions, no reminders that I wasn’t in control of my own life. I thought I was free. Two weeks passed. One evening, sitting alone with a cooling cup of tea, a thought struck me: why hadn’t her voice echoed in my mind? “Upset? Did I wound her pride?” I wondered, glancing at my phone. No missed calls, no messages. Just emptiness.
I sighed and decided to ring her myself. The line kept ringing, but there was no answer. “Of course,” I muttered, frustrated by her stubbornness, “after I pushed her away, now she’s ignoring me.” The following day, I tried calling again—still silence. A cold knot twisted in my chest. What if something had happened? Her words surfaced in my memory, quiet and warm: “I’ll always be here if you want to talk.” But what if she couldn’t be there anymore? Dread seized my heart.
I dropped everything—work, responsibilities, plans—and rushed to her cottage near Henley, where she’d spent her last years. Unlocking the door with my key, my blood thundered in my ears. Inside, it was oppressively quiet. I called out: “Mum?” My voice quivered, but silence was my only reply. She lay on the bed, clutching her phone in lifeless hands. Her eyes were closed, her face serene, as if she were merely asleep. But I knew—she was gone.
On the bedside table, a cup of tea sat untouched, cold, a symbol of her loneliness. Beside it lay an old photo album. With trembling fingers, I opened it—the first photo was of me as a child, sitting on her lap, her smile all-encompassing as she hugged me. Tears blurred my vision, and a lump rose in my throat. “When did this happen? Did she call me at the end? Was she reaching out to say goodbye?” I grabbed her phone—my hands shook feverishly. The last dialed number was mine. The date was that same day I’d told her to leave me alone. She listened, and she never called again.
Now I’m the one who calls. Every day, every evening. I dial her number, listening to the endless ring, hoping for a miracle that won’t 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 pushed her away—harshly, mercilessly. Work, stress, obligations—all that seemed important crumbled into nothing, leaving me with a void impossible to fill. She only wished to care for me, and I saw it as a burden. Now, I realize: her calls were the thread holding us together, and I severed it.
I wander her home, touching her belongings—her old blanket, the worn mug, the photo album where we’re so happy. Every little thing screams what I’ve lost. Mum left, without a goodbye, because I denied her the chance. My final words—”Don’t call me!”—became her judgment and my curse. I shout into the empty air, calling for her, but all I hear is the echo of my guilt. She won’t call again, and I can’t stop calling her, hoping somehow, somewhere beyond, she’ll forgive me. Yet silence is my eternal answer, and with it, I now live, bearing this pain like a heavy cross.”
