The other day, my mother left the house just like she always did. Early in the morning, she’d texted me asking if Id had breakfast. I replied, Yes, well talk later, and went back to my work. She wasnt unwell, she wasnt in hospital, there was no worry, no farewell just an ordinary day. One of those days you believe wont change anything at all.
At four oclock, my phone rang from a number I didnt recognise. It was our neighbour, Mrs. Watson. She said, Your mums had an accident. I asked where, and she told me which clinic. I rushed over at once. They told me shed collapsed in the street, hit her head, and there was nothing they could do. No drama, no last words.
There were no final sentences. No hugs. No time for any exchange. I simply stood staring at a sterile white wall as they explained forms, signatures, and procedures. With a trembling voice, I called my brothers and spoke the hardest sentence Ive ever uttered: Mums gone.
The real impact wasnt at the clinic. It was when I walked alone into her home to collect her things. I opened her wardrobe and saw clothes waiting to be washed. Her sandals were by the door, her purse hung behind the chair, groceries half put away. Everything was paused in that instant, when her life had been cut short.
I picked up one of her blouses to put in a bag and caught the scent of her soap. I stood there, clutching the fabric, unable to move. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor for ages. I felt anger.
Then came the small, quiet agonies: dialling her number out of habit, only to remember it doesnt exist anymore; coming home from work and theres no one to ask if you made it back safely; walking past her house but not going in. No one warns you about this silence.
Everyone says, It was her time, God works in mysterious ways, Shes at peace now. But I dont feel peace. I feel absence. I feel like she left on an ordinary day, with no permission, no warning, no time to comfort my aching heart.
What hurts the most is that it wasnt a goodbye. It was sudden, dry, and sharp.
