The Final Call
Elizabeth woke with a lump in her throat and anger simmering inside. The day started heavy, not from lack of sleep or the weather—it was her mother’s birthday. Her thoughts churned: one moment remembering, the next pushing it away, busying herself with chores or preparations to visit a friend. She couldn’t bring herself to dial the number—sometimes blaming the time difference, other times convincing herself her mother might be asleep or busy. But the truth was, she was afraid.
They hadn’t spoken in nearly a year. A silence broken only by brief updates from her brother. Elizabeth missed her. And yet… the distance felt safe, almost healing. She’d grown used to the fragile balance and knew—one conversation could shatter her all over again.
Standing before the mirror, she carefully applied mascara, catching her own anxious reflection.
“Well, Liz,” she sighed, “you’ll have to face it eventually.”
Her brother was in Canada, spending the long weekend at the lake with his girlfriend—Bank Holiday. He’d wished their mother happy birthday in advance but forgotten about his sister. The hope that he might call from the care home and pass her the phone faded.
Their relationship with their mother had always been fraught. She was strict, distant, sharp with her words. A child psychologist by profession, she’d treated Elizabeth like an experiment, her upbringing more like military training—rigid, planned, demanding. There was no warmth in it.
Elizabeth remembered being six, crying in the cold:
“Mum, I’m freezing…”
“Imagine you’re the blazing sun and run faster,” her mother dismissed.
As a teen, it worsened—constant comparisons to “friends’ children,” endless criticism, pressure to be perfect. School, French, piano, sports—everything at once. No affection, just control. Even achievements were met with indifference, as if they were obligations. When Elizabeth first stayed over at a boyfriend’s, her mother scoffed,
“No decent man will marry you now.”
Her brother got gentler treatment. He could vanish for days with friends, while she’d face weeks of silent disapproval. Their father left for France after the divorce, their grandmother moved in with Elizabeth in London, and when their mother was alone, she suddenly appeared in the UK—no proper visa, just a stubborn will and a suitcase of grievances. Soon, she left for another admirer in Manchester, blaming Gran for “ruining the marriage.”
Men had always been drawn to her—beauty, wit, confidence. Yet none stayed long. Neither did friends. Only Elizabeth remained, an anchor. Though lately, she felt it dragging her down.
When she divorced and moved to France, her mother said,
“You’re abandoning your children. You’re no mother.”
After that, contact dwindled. Occasionally, her mother sent letters—long, poetic, filled with apologies and memories. They felt genuine, as if on paper, she could be the person she couldn’t in life. Elizabeth would read them and hope, “Maybe this time…”
But the cycle repeated. Letters—call—a cutting remark—silence.
When Parkinson’s and frailty took hold, her brother insisted on a care home. Nurses, comfort, safety. Yet even there, her mother stayed unchanged—bitter, sharp. At her 85th, the family gathered—children, grandchildren. Elizabeth hadn’t seen her in five years, only over video calls. Finally face-to-face, her mother said,
“Your nails look nice. Do them often?”
That was it. All she could muster.
A year passed. Two brief calls. Now, her mother didn’t answer—deafness or deliberate, who knew? Her brother shared vague updates, but nothing concrete.
Darkness settled over Paris. Across the Channel, morning rose. Elizabeth dialed again. Once. Twice. The care home. Reception. No luck. Guilt and relief tangled inside. She typed an email to the matron:
“Please pass on my birthday wishes. Apologies I couldn’t reach her myself.”
Sinking onto the sofa, she stared out the window. Tomorrow, she’d turn sixty. Only now did she truly understand: some battles can’t be won. All that’s left is hope—that deep down, her mother knew. That despite everything, she was loved.