Every day feels like a race against time. I’m 44 years old, with three kids and a stable job. But each evening, I find myself overwhelmed, juggling between cooking, cleaning, and helping my children with their homework. It’s exhausting, and at times, it feels like there’s no room left for me.
When my kids were younger, my mom used to help me out. She loved spending time with them, and her presence allowed me a brief respite. I could take a moment to breathe, knowing she was there, lending a hand with the tasks. But as the years went by, things began to change. When my youngest turned 12, my mom started helping less and less. She began calling me more often, but not to help—just to chat. I didn’t realize at first, but those conversations, instead of giving me peace, became another burden. It’s hard to explain, but in my exhaustion, I didn’t know how to handle it.
One evening, after a particularly long day, I cracked. My mom called me, asking for my help, and I just snapped.
“Mum, stop calling me every day! I can’t handle it all! I can’t come, don’t call me again!” I shouted, my voice trembling with frustration and guilt.
She didn’t say anything after that. Three days went by without a single call. Instead of feeling relief, I felt anxiety building up. Why wasn’t she calling? Was something wrong? My heart raced as I realized how much I missed hearing from her, how much I depended on her voice, even in the smallest ways.
I couldn’t wait any longer, so I decided to visit her. When I arrived, her door was locked. I knocked, but there was no answer. Something inside me dropped. I had a bad feeling. I took the spare key from my pocket and entered.
What I saw when I walked into the room will forever haunt me. My mom was lying on the bed, perfectly still. At first, I thought she was just resting, but the more I looked, the more I realized something was wrong. Her face was serene, almost eerily calm, as if she was asleep—but I knew better.
“Mum?” I whispered, barely audible.
Silence.
A cold fear gripped me as I got closer. I touched her hand, and it was cold. I called her name again, but it was too late. She was gone.
In that moment, everything froze. Time stopped. I couldn’t believe it. Next to her on the table was a box—inside, a brand-new phone. «She must’ve bought it for me,» I thought. Perhaps she had tried to call me to tell me about the gift, but I hadn’t been there to listen. I hadn’t understood.
How could I have been so busy? Why didn’t I visit her sooner? Why did I think I could handle everything later? Why didn’t I answer her calls?
Now it’s too late.
And this pain, this unbearable guilt, will never leave me. Never. 💔
