“Don’t call me again, Mum, I’m busy!” I snapped into the phone. And she never called back…
My name’s Emily Whitmore, and I live in Stratford-upon-Avon, where the old clock tower stands in the River Avon like a silent shadow of the past. I’ll never forget that day. “Don’t call me again, Mum, I’m busy!” I spat into the receiver, slamming it down angrily. At the time, I thought I was justified. Work was crushing me, deadlines were burning, and my nerves were frayed to bits. Mum’s calls—her endless “Have you eaten? How are you? Are you tired?”—drove me up the wall. I felt smothered by her care, like I couldn’t breathe, like I just needed space to live my own life. All I wanted in that moment was silence.
And Mum went silent. She didn’t call that day, or the next, or the week after. At first, I barely noticed—too wrapped up in my own chaos. The emptiness was a relief: no more nagging questions, no reminders that I wasn’t in control. I felt free—or so I thought. Two weeks passed. One evening, sipping cold tea alone, it hit me: why wasn’t her voice in my head anymore? “Is she upset? Too proud to call?” I wondered, glancing at my phone. No missed calls, no texts. Nothing.
I sighed and decided to ring her myself. The line just kept ringing—no answer. “Typical. Now she’s giving me the silent treatment,” I muttered, annoyed at her stubbornness. The next day, I called again. Still nothing. A cold knot twisted in my chest. What if something was wrong? I remembered her words, spoken softly once with warmth: “I’ll always be here if you want to talk.” But what if she couldn’t be here anymore? My heart clenched with dread.
I dropped everything—work, plans, obligations—and raced to her cottage in the Cotswolds, where she’d lived these last few years. Unlocking her door, my pulse thundered in my ears. Inside, it was quiet—a heavy, suffocating silence. “Mum?” My voice shook. No reply. She lay on the bed, her stiff fingers curled around her phone. Eyes closed, face peaceful, as if she’d only fallen asleep. But I knew—she was gone.
On the nightstand sat a cup of tea—cold, untouched, a monument to her loneliness. Beside it, an old photo album. I flipped it open with trembling hands—my childhood face smiled back from the first page: little me on her lap, her arms around me, grinning. Tears blurred my vision; my throat tightened. “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 dialled number? Mine. The date? That very day I’d told her to leave me alone. She’d listened. She never called again.
Now I’m the one calling. Every day, every night. Dialling her number, listening to the endless ring, praying for a miracle that won’t come. The silence on the line cuts deeper than any blade. I imagine her lying there alone, clutching the phone, waiting for my voice—while I pushed her away, harsh, unfeeling. Work, stress, life—all of it crumbled into nothing, leaving me hollow, with a gap nothing can fill. All she ever wanted was to care for me, and I saw it as a burden. Now I know: her calls were the thread holding us together, and I cut it myself.
I wander through her cottage, touching her things—the worn blanket, her chipped mug, the photos of us happy. Every little thing screams what I’ve lost. Mum left without a goodbye because I never gave her the chance. My last words—“Don’t call me!”—became her sentence and my curse. I shout into the void, calling for her, but all I hear is the echo of my guilt. She’ll never call again, but I’ll keep dialling—hoping somehow, somewhere, she forgives me. The silence is my only answer now, and I live with it, carrying this pain like a weight I’ll never put down.
