“Don’t call me anymore, Mum, I’m busy!” I snapped into the phone. And she never called again.
My name is Emily Whitmore, and I live in Ely, where the cathedral towers over the river like a silent ghost of the past. I’ll never forget that day. “Don’t call me anymore, Mum, I’m busy!” I spat into the receiver before slamming it down. At the time, I thought I was justified—work was crushing me, deadlines loomed, and my nerves were frayed. Her calls, with their endless, “Have you eaten? How are you? Are you tired?” felt suffocating. I was drowning in her concern, gasping for the space to live my own life. All I wanted was silence.
And she gave it to me. No calls that day, or the next, or the week after. At first, I barely noticed—I was too tangled in my own chaos. The emptiness felt like relief: no nagging questions, no reminders that I couldn’t even take care of myself. I was free—or so I thought. Two weeks passed. One evening, nursing a cold cup of tea alone, it suddenly struck me—why wasn’t her voice in my head anymore? “Has she given up? Is this her pride talking?” I glanced at my phone. No missed calls, no messages. Just silence.
I sighed and dialled her myself. The line rang and rang, but she didn’t pick up. “Typical—now she’s giving me the silent treatment,” I muttered, irritated by her stubbornness. The next day, I called again. Still nothing. A cold weight settled in my chest. What if something had happened? Her quiet words from years ago flickered in my mind: “I’ll always be here if you want to talk.” What if she wasn’t here anymore? My heart clenched with dread.
I dropped everything—work, plans, responsibilities—and raced to her cottage in the fens outside Ely. As I fumbled with my key at her door, my pulse throbbed in my ears. Inside, the air was thick with stillness—a silence that felt heavy, final. “Mum?” My voice trembled. No answer. She was on the bed, her stiff fingers curled around the phone. Eyes closed, face peaceful, as if she’d simply fallen asleep. But I knew—she was gone.
On the nightstand sat a mug of tea—cold, untouched, a bitter symbol of solitude. Beside it lay an old photo album. I turned the first page with shaky hands—a childhood picture of me, small and grinning, cradled in her arms as she smiled down at me. Tears blurred my vision; my throat burned. “When did it happen? Did she try to call? Did she want to say goodbye?” I grabbed her phone—my hands shook violently. The last number dialled—mine. The date—the very day I’d screamed at her to leave me alone. She’d listened. She never called again.
Now, I’m the one who calls. Every day, every evening. I dial her number, listen to the endless ringing, praying for a miracle that won’t come. The silence on the line cuts deeper than any blade. I imagine her lying there, clutching the phone, waiting for my voice—only for me to push her away, harsh and unfeeling. Work, stress, obligations—everything I thought mattered crumbled to nothing, leaving me hollow, aching. All she ever wanted was to care for me, and I treated it like a burden. Now I know—her calls were the thread between us, and I was the one who severed it.
I wander through her house, touching her things—the worn tartan blanket, her chipped favourite mug, the photos of us smiling, blissfully unaware. Every little thing screams of what I’ve lost. She left without goodbye because I never gave her the chance. My last words—”Don’t call me!”—were her sentence and my curse. I shout into the void, begging for her, but only the echo of my guilt answers. She’ll never call again. And I’ll never stop calling her—hoping, somewhere beyond, she forgives me. But the silence is my answer now, and I live with it, carrying this pain like a weight I’ll never set down.
