The other day, my mother left the house, just as she did every morning. She messaged me to ask if I’d had breakfast. I replied, Yes, well talk later, and got back to my tasks. She wasnt ill, not in hospital, nothing to fret over, no farewells. Just a perfectly ordinary day. One of those days you think wont ever matter.
At four oclock, an unknown number rang. It was a neighbour. She said, Your mums had an accident. I asked where she was, and she told me which clinic. I went at once. They explained shed collapsed on the pavement, struck her head, and there was nothing they could do. Sono melodrama, no last words.
There werent any final sentences. No hugs. No time to say anything. I stood, facing a pale wall, while they spoke to me about papers, signatures, procedures. I called my brothers, voice quivering, and uttered the hardest sentence Ive ever spoken: Mum is gone.
The real shock wasnt at the clinic. It arrived when I stepped alone into her home to collect her things. Opening the wardrobe, I found clothes waiting to be washed. Her sandals sat by the door, purse hanging behind the chair, shopping half unpacked. Everything had frozen at the exact moment life had broken.
I picked up one of her blouses, meant for the bag, and caught the scent of her soap. I stayed still, clutching the fabric, unable to move. I sat on the bed and gazed at the floor for an age. I felt anger.
Then came the small things that ache most: dialling her number out of habit and remembering its gone, coming in from work to no one asking if you got home alright, passing her cottage and not entering. No one warns you about this silence.
Her time had come, God works in mysterious ways, Shes at rest now, everyone says. But I dont feel peace. I feel absence. I feel she left on a random day, without permission, without warning, without enough time to patch my heart.
And thats what hurts most: it wasnt a goodbye. It was a sharp, abrupt split.
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