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

My name is Catarina Oliveira, and I live in Tomar, a town where time seems to flow slowly over ancient stones. The old church tower rises above the Nabão River like a silent guardian of forgotten memories. I grew up here, between narrow cobbled streets and the soft murmur of the water, with the smell of fresh bread in the mornings and my mother’s voice calling me home as the sun dipped behind the hills.

But that day, everything changed.

“Don’t call me anymore, Mom, I’m busy!” —I exclaimed, louder and sharper than I meant. I hung up, my heart pounding, my head spinning. I had just come out of a tense meeting. My inbox was overflowing, deadlines loomed like cliffs, and my nerves were frayed. That call —one more interruption— felt like the final straw.

She only wanted to know if I had eaten. If I was okay. If I was getting enough rest. But in that moment… I just wanted silence.

And she gave me exactly that.

She didn’t call that night. Or the next. Or the entire week that followed. At first, I didn’t even notice. I was buried too deep in my own chaos —endless tasks, endless noise. Her absence felt… convenient. No one to ask silly questions, no one to remind me I wasn’t truly on my own. I thought I had finally claimed my peace, my freedom.

Two weeks passed.

One night, sitting alone at the kitchen table with a cold cup of coffee in my hands, something inside me shifted. Why wasn’t her voice echoing in my head anymore? That voice that used to annoy me so much now left an unbearable silence. “Is she hurt? Proud?” —I wondered, staring at my phone. No missed calls. No texts. Just… nothing.

I sighed and decided to call her.

It rang. Once. Twice. Three times… no answer.
“Of course,” I muttered bitterly. “I told her not to call, and now she’s ignoring me.”
The next day I tried again. Silence.

That cold knot in my chest began to tighten. What if something had happened? I remembered her voice, soft and warm: “I’m always here if you want to talk.”
But what if she couldn’t be anymore?

I dropped everything —work, meetings, deadlines— and drove straight to the little village near Tomar where she had been living for the past few years. Each turn of the road felt heavier than the last. My hands trembled on the steering wheel.

I opened the door with my key. The air inside was cold and still. The ticking clock in the hallway had stopped, frozen in time. I called out, “Mom?” —my voice barely more than a whisper. No reply.

I found her in her bedroom. Lying there. Motionless. As if she were sleeping.
The phone still rested between her hands. Her eyes were closed. Her face peaceful.
Too peaceful.

On the nightstand sat a cup of tea —cold, untouched. Beside it, an old photo album. I opened it with shaking hands. On the first page, a photo of me as a little girl, sitting on her lap. She was smiling. Hugging me.

Tears blurred my vision. A sob rose in my throat.

“When did it happen? Had she tried to call me one last time? Did she want to say goodbye?”

I grabbed her phone. My hands trembled like leaves in the wind.
The last call made —my number.
The date?
The same day I told her to stop calling me.

And she listened.

She never called again.

Now I’m the one who calls. Every day. Every night. I dial her number, let it ring endlessly, as if wishing for a miracle that will never come. The silence on the other end cuts deeper than any words ever could.

I imagine her there, alone, clutching her phone, waiting to hear my voice —and I pushed her away. Coldly. Without mercy.
Work, stress, pressure —all the things that once seemed so urgent— have turned to dust. None of it matters now.
All she ever wanted was to love me, to care for me.
And I saw it as a burden.

Now I understand: her calls were the thread connecting us.
And I’m the one who cut it.

I walk through her house. I touch her things —her books, her coat still on the hanger, her scent faint in the air. Everything is still hers.
Everything… except her.

Sometimes I close my eyes and pretend I can hear her voice again: “Have you eaten, sweetie?”
But no one answers.
Only silence.

And that silence…
Will follow me forever.