“Don’t call me anymore, Mom, I’m busy!” — I shouted into the phone. And my mother… never called again.

“Don’t call me anymore, Mom, I’m busy!” — I shouted into the phone. And my mother… never called again.

My name is Carmen Fernández, and I live in Santiago de Compostela, where the cathedral rises majestically as a silent witness to time and history. That day… I will never forget. “Don’t call me anymore, Mom, I’m busy!” — I said with anger, slamming the phone shut. In that moment, I truly believed I was right. Work was overwhelming, deadlines were crushing me, and my nerves were on edge. My mother’s constant calls — her endless “Have you eaten?”, “How are you?”, “Are you tired?” — drove me up the wall. I felt smothered by her care, desperate for space to live my own life. All I wanted in that instant was silence.

And she gave me silence. She didn’t call that day, or the next, or the week after. At first, I didn’t even notice — too caught up in my own chaos. Her absence even brought a strange sense of relief: no interruptions, no one reminding me that I didn’t fully control my life. I felt free. Or so I thought.

Two weeks passed. One night, sitting alone with a cup of cold coffee in my hands, I suddenly wondered: why isn’t her voice echoing in my mind anymore? “Is she mad? Did she let her pride take over?” — I thought, staring at my phone. No missed calls. No messages. Just emptiness.

I sighed and decided to call her myself. The phone rang and rang… but no answer. “Of course… now she’s ignoring me,” I muttered, annoyed at what I saw as her stubbornness. The next day I tried again — and again, silence. A cold sensation settled in my chest. What if something had happened?

Her voice echoed in my memory, soft and full of love: “I’ll always be here if you want to talk.” What if… she couldn’t be here anymore? My heart shrank with fear.

I dropped everything — work, responsibilities, plans — and rushed to her house, in a small village outside Santiago, where she had lived for the past few years. I opened the door with my keys, heart pounding in my chest. Inside, there was only silence — a heavy, suffocating silence. I called out: “Mom?” — my voice trembled. No response.

She was lying in bed, holding the phone in her cold hands. Her eyes closed, her face peaceful, as if she were simply sleeping. But I knew. I knew she was gone.

On the nightstand was a cup of tea — cold, untouched — a quiet symbol of her loneliness. Beside it, an old photo album. I opened it with trembling fingers. On the first page, a photo from my childhood: me, sitting on her lap, while she smiled and wrapped me in her arms. Tears blurred my vision and a lump swelled in my throat. “When did this happen? Did she try to call me one last time? Did she want to say goodbye?”

I picked up her phone — my hands shaking like I had a fever. The last number dialed — mine. The date — the same day I told her to leave me alone. And she obeyed. She never called again.

Now I’m the one who calls. Every day. Every night. I dial her number, listen to the endless ringing, praying for a miracle that will never come. The silence on the other end cuts deeper than any blade. I imagine her lying there, alone, clutching the phone, waiting to hear my voice — while I pushed her away, coldly, without mercy.

Work, stress, obligations — all the things I once thought were so important — have vanished. They mean nothing now. All she wanted was to take care of me… and I treated her love as a burden.

Now I understand: those phone calls were the invisible thread that held us together. And I’m the one who cut it.

I walk through her house, touch her things — the old blanket, the worn-out mug, the photo album filled with our happiness. Every little detail screams what I’ve lost. My mother left without saying goodbye… because I never gave her the chance. My last words — “Don’t call me” — became her sentence… and my life sentence.

Now I’m the one shouting into the void. The one calling, hoping that somehow, somewhere beyond this world, she can hear me… and forgive me. But silence is the only answer I get. And I live with that silence now, carrying this pain like a heavy cross — one I built with my own hands.