“Don’t call me anymore, Mum, I’m busy!” I shouted into the phone. And Mum never called again…
My name is Sarah Bennett, and I live in Winchester, where the old cathedral stands as a silent rebuke from the past. I’ll never forget that day. “Don’t call me anymore, Mum, I’m busy!” I snapped into the phone, angrily hanging up. At the time, I felt justified. Work was like a vise, deadlines loomed, and my nerves were frayed to the limit. Mum’s calls — her constant “Have you eaten? How are you? Are you tired?” — drove me up the wall. I felt suffocated by her care, lacking space to simply live my own life. At that moment, all I wanted was silence.
And Mum obliged. She didn’t call later that day, the next, or the week after. At first, I barely noticed—too consumed by my own chaos. The emptiness was a relief: no one bothering me with trivial questions or reminding me that I wasn’t my own boss. I felt free—or so I thought. Two weeks passed. One evening, as I sat alone with a cup of cold tea, I suddenly realized: Why haven’t I heard her voice? “Is she upset? Did her pride take a hit?” 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 no answer came. “Of course,” I scoffed, irritated by her stubbornness, “since I brushed her off, now she’s ignoring me.” I called again the next day—still nothing. A cold knot churned in my belly. What if something happened? Her warm words from the past echoed in my mind: “I’ll always be here if you want to talk.” But what if she couldn’t be there anymore? Panic clutched my heart.
I dropped everything—work, plans, responsibilities—and rushed to her village near Winchester, where she’d spent her last years. As I opened the door with my keys, my heart pounded in my chest. Inside, it was quiet—an oppressive, deathly silence. I called out, “Mum?”—my voice trembled, but there was no response. She lay on the bed, her phone clutched in lifeless hands. Her eyes were shut, her face peaceful, as if she were just asleep. But deep down, I knew—she was gone.
On the bedside table sat a cold, untouched cup of tea—a symbol of her solitude. Next to it was an old photo album. With trembling fingers, I opened it—to the first page, my childhood photo: small, sitting on her lap while she smiled, embracing me. Tears blurred my vision, a lump formed in my throat. “When did it happen? Was she calling me for the last time? Did she want to say goodbye?” I grabbed her phone—my hands shivering like in a fever. Her last dialed number—mine. The date—the very day I’d told her to leave me alone. She listened. She never called again.
Now I’m the one who calls. Every day, every night. I dial her number, listening to the endless ring, wishing for a miracle that won’t come. The silence on the line cuts deeper than any knife. I imagine her laying there alone, clutching the phone, waiting for my voice while I cruelly pushed her away. Work, stress, obligations—all that once seemed important crumbled, leaving me with a void that nothing can fill. She only wanted to care for me, but I saw it as a burden. Now I realize her calls were the thread that kept us connected, and I severed it myself.
I walk through her house, touching her things—an old blanket, a worn mug, the album filled with photos of us happy together. Every little thing screams of what I have 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, call for her, but all I hear is the echo of my own guilt. She’ll never call again, and I’ll never stop calling her—hoping that somewhere, beyond this world, she forgives me. But silence is my eternal answer, and with it, I now live, bearing this pain like a heavy cross.”
