The thing about phone calls is you never really know which one matters until it’s too late. Most times it’s just spam or someone trying to sell you insurance. But every once in a while, it’s the call you should have picked up that you’ll regret ignoring.
That evening, my phone buzzed. I stared at the screen.
“Mom…” I muttered under my breath, rubbing my temples. “Not now.”
My head was heavy from work, everything buzzing. I needed rest. I told myself, I’ll call her tomorrow. Just tomorrow.
But tomorrow didn’t come the way I thought it would.
She passed away that night.
I still see it in my mind. The phone buzzing on the table. Her name glowing. Me, too drained, too wrapped up in my own tiredness to move.
I can hear her now, in memory:
“Don’t forget to eat something before you sleep,” she would say, always a little sharp, like I’d forget otherwise.
And I would roll my eyes. “I’m fine, Mom. Really.”
Her sigh would travel through the line, heavy with patience. “Fine, fine… but I know you’re not. You never listen, you know that?”
I’ve told myself a thousand excuses. I was tired, my head pounding, deadlines everywhere. But really… I just didn’t want to talk. I couldn’t face it. I thought one missed call wouldn’t matter. And moods, it turns out, can cost more than you think.
Growing up, my mom was never soft.
“Stand up straight,” she’d bark at the table. “Read your books! Don’t waste food!”
“Yes, Mom,” I said, shoving some rice into my mouth. I just wanted to disappear, anywhere but there, anywhere but under her gaze.
“Why are you so slow? I’m not asking you to move mountains!”
I’d grumble silently, hoping she wouldn’t notice. Of course she always did. Her firm voice usually lingered under my skin.
Yet, I knew she loved me. I could feel it in little things. She’d hang around the gate, barely moving, just waiting for the sound of my shoes on the path, her worry tucked into every second. Or how she’d save the last piece of meat for me even when the money was short.
“I got this for you,” she’d say, handing me a tiny packet of peanuts from the market. “Eat. You’re always in a hurry, always hungry.”
I didn’t appreciate that enough. None of us ever do, really, when we’re young.
The house filled up after she was gone. Full of family I hadn’t seen in years. Neighbors showed up too, shaking their heads, offering food that sat untouched in front of me, because I didn’t have the appetite. Everyone had a story to tell.
“She could shout, but she had a good heart,” my aunt said, smiling through tears.
And we laughed, because it was true.
And me? I just sat there. Numb. My last memory of her was the call I didn’t answer.
Grief doesn’t always announce itself. The sight of someone pressing a tomato at the market makes my chest tighten and stomach twist.
At night, I dream the phone is still ringing. I wake up, reaching for it, half-expecting her voice on the line.
People say time heals. I don’t know. Time doesn’t heal. It layers over things, like plaster on a cracked wall. The crack is still there, hidden just beneath the surface.
I talk to her picture sometimes. Not out loud, not for anyone to hear. Just quietly.
“Mom… today the traffic was terrible,” I whisper. “And I burnt my toast again. You’d be laughing.”
And in my mind, she replies,
“Ugh, why do you keep burning toast? You’re impossible sometimes.”
A smile edges onto my face, almost a laugh, but my throat tightens and the tears stick there instead.
If she could answer, I think she’d scold me again. “Why didn’t you pick up that night, eh?”
And I’d finally say, “I’m sorry.”
I am. More sorry than I can ever write down.
Sometimes I imagine that call. Maybe it wasn’t important. Maybe she just wanted to say, “Lock the door, it’s cold.” But it wasn’t the message. It was her voice. Ordinary, yet everything. Missing that ordinary thing hurts more than I expected. Life, I’ve learned, is mostly ordinary. And when you miss it… you miss everything.
Now, I answer calls differently. Even when I’m tired. Even when I don’t feel like talking. Especially family.
I haven’t deleted her last missed call. I can’t. Maybe it’s a way of keeping her near. Maybe it’s proof that she tried one last time.
And every time I see it, I tell myself I'll pick up if given a second chance.
