My Last Conversation with Mom
My mother called me three times that evening.
I didn’t answer.
I was working.
The first time, I saw her name on my screen and thought, I’ll call her after this.
The second time, I was in the middle of a meeting.
The third time, I was annoyed.
I remember thinking,
“Why does she keep calling? I’ll call her later.”
She sent me a message.
“Call me when you’re free.”
I replied:
“Yes, ma. Later.”
That was the last message I ever sent her.
She died that night.
I don’t remember much about the next few days.
There were relatives everywhere.
People were talking.
Someone was making tea.
Someone was answering phone calls.
Everyone kept telling me to eat something.
I couldn’t.
But the thing that kept playing in my head was that message.
Yes, ma. Later.
I kept thinking about what she wanted to tell me.
Maybe she wanted to ask what I had eaten.
Maybe she wanted to remind me about something.
Maybe she just wanted to hear my voice.
I’ll never know.
For months, I blamed myself.
I kept thinking that if I had answered the phone, somehow things would have been different.
I know that’s not logical.
But grief isn’t logical.
About a year later, I found her old phone while helping my father clean a cupboard.
I turned it on.
There were hundreds of photographs.
Most of them were completely random.
Vegetables she had bought.
A flower in the garden.
My father sleeping on the sofa.
Me eating at some restaurant.
Then I found a voice recording.
It was only about 30 seconds.
She was talking to herself while cooking.
At the end, she said,
“I should call Riya. I haven’t spoken to her properly in a few days.”
I started crying immediately.
But this time, it wasn’t the same kind of crying.
For years, I had been thinking about the one call I missed.
That recording reminded me of all the calls I did answer.
All the dinners.
All the arguments.
All the times she asked if I’d eaten.
All the times I said “I’m busy” and called her back later.
Our relationship wasn’t one phone call.
It was twenty-three years.
I still wish I had answered that night.
I probably always will.
But I’ve stopped punishing myself for it.
Because my mother didn’t love me only during our last conversation.
She loved me throughout my entire life.
And I think that’s what I needed to remember.