**Monday, 12th November**
Life after the wedding was peacefuljust the way Oliver and I had dreamed. Our little flat in Manchester felt like a haven, at least until the calls began.
At precisely 2:00 AM, the phone rang. Oliver stirred before I did, groggily picking up. His voice was thick with sleep. “Mum? Is everything all right?”
All she said was, “Sweetheart, are you asleep? Is everything okay?”
Odd, but we brushed it offperhaps she was unwell or restless. I even felt a twinge of sympathy.
Then it happened again the next night. Same time. Same whisper. “Sweetheart, are you asleep? I just wanted to check on you.”
By then, frustration set in. We were exhausted, barely functioning. Oliver struggled at work; I snapped at everyone.
On the third night, I suggested turning off our phones. But at half past twoa knock at the door. There stood his mother, in her nightdress, barefoot, calm as ever. “I couldnt reach you,” she said, stepping inside. “I was worried.”
I was furious. Oliver, ever patient, just sighed. He adored her, even as we agreed this wasnt normal.
A week passed. We dreaded nighttime. We pleaded with her to stopnothing worked. Once, I shouted. She only smiled.
Then, one night, we switched off our phones again. No call. No knock. For the first time in days, we slept.
The next afternoon, we went to check on her. Perhaps she was ill. Perhaps cross with us.
The moment we opened her flat door, the smell hit us.
There she was, in her armchair. Cold. The phone still clutched in her hand.
The coroner would say shed died around two in the morning.
Thats when it struck usthe calls had stopped because she couldnt make them. Shed been afraid. Afraid of dying alone.
And wed been too selfish to see it.
Never ignore your parents calls. It might be their last.
