“Don’t call me anymore, Mum, I’m busy!” I yelled down the line. And Mum never called again…
My name is Kate Rivers, and I live in Winchester, where the cathedral stands as a silent reproach to the past. That day will forever be etched in my memory. “Don’t call me anymore, Mum, I’m busy!” I blurted into the phone before slamming it down in frustration. At the time, I thought I was justified. Work was crushing me under its weight, deadlines loomed, and my nerves were stretched to breaking point. Mum’s calls—her constant “Have you eaten? How’s it going? Are you tired yet?”—drove me mad. I felt suffocated by her concern, like I couldn’t just live my life. All I wanted in that moment was silence.
And Mum complied. She didn’t call that day, or the next, or even the week after. Initially, I didn’t even notice—I was too engrossed in my own chaos. I relished the quiet: no one asking silly questions, no one reminding me I didn’t own my life. I felt free—or so I thought. Two weeks passed. One evening, sitting alone with a cup of cold tea, I realized: why hasn’t her voice been in my head? “Is she upset? Is it her pride?” I mused, glancing at my phone. No missed calls, no messages. Just emptiness.
With a sigh, I decided to call her. The dial tone rang out repeatedly without an answer. “Of course, I’ve pushed her away, and now she’s ignoring me,” I grumbled, annoyed by her stubbornness. The next day, I tried again—still nothing but silence. A cold knot formed in my chest. What if something had happened? Her words echoed in my mind, spoken softly once with warmth: “I’ll always be here if you want to talk.” But what if she couldn’t be there anymore? My heart clenched with dread.
Dropping everything—work, appointments, commitments—I rushed to her cottage in the Hampshire countryside, where she had been living in recent years. As I unlocked the door with my key, my heart pounded in my ears. Inside, silence hung heavily—an oppressive, dead silence. I called out, “Mum?”—my voice trembling, but there was no reply. There she was on the bed, clutching the phone in her lifeless hands. Eyes shut, face peaceful, as if she were merely asleep. But I knew—she was gone.
On the bedside table sat a mug of tea—cold and untouched, a symbol of her solitude. Next to it lay an old photo album. I flipped through it with trembling fingers—the first page showed a childhood photo of me: a little girl on her knee, her smiling as she held me close. Tears blurred my vision, and 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 feverishly. The last number dialed was mine. The date was the same day I had shouted at her to leave me alone. 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, clinging to the hope for a miracle that won’t come. The silence on the phone cuts sharper than any knife. I envision her lying there, clutching the phone, waiting for my voice, while I had harshly pushed her away—uncaring, unforgiving. Work, stress, errands—everything that seemed important has crumbled away, leaving me with a void I can’t fill. All she wanted was to care for me, and I saw it as a burden. Now I understand: her calls were the thread that kept us connected, and I severed it myself.
I wander through her home, touching her belongings—an old blanket, a worn mug, the album with photographs of our happy times. Every little thing screams of what I’ve lost. Mum left without saying goodbye because I didn’t give her the chance. My last words—”Don’t call me!”—became her sentence and my curse. I cry out into the emptiness, calling for her, but only hear the echo of my guilt. She will never call again, and I won’t stop calling her—hoping that somewhere, beyond this life, she forgives me. Yet silence is my perpetual answer, and with it, I must now live, carrying this pain like a heavy cross.”
