**The Final Call**
Charlotte woke with a lump in her throat and anger coiled tight in her chest. The day had started heavy, not from lack of sleep or the dreary London drizzle—today was her mother’s birthday. Her mind buzzed, flickering between remembrance and forced distraction: tidying the flat, prepping for tea with her friend Emily. She couldn’t bring herself to dial the number—blaming time zones, or the chance her mother might be asleep or busy. But the truth was simpler: she was afraid.
They hadn’t spoken in nearly a year. Three hundred sixty-five days of silence, broken only by sparse updates from her brother, James. Charlotte missed her. And yet… the distance had been a relief, a fragile peace she’d grown used to. One conversation could unravel her all over again.
She stood before the mirror, carefully lining her lashes, catching her own anxious reflection.
“Well, Lottie,” she exhaled, “you’ll have to do it eventually.”
James was in Scotland, off to Loch Lomond with his girlfriend—bank holiday weekend. He’d wished their mother happy birthday early, forgotten to nudge Charlotte. The hope he’d call from the care home and pass the phone had faded.
Their mother had always been difficult. Stern, cold, razor-tongued. A child psychologist by trade, she’d treated Charlotte like a case study—parenting as a military exercise, all discipline and demands. No warmth, just scrutiny.
Charlotte remembered, at six, crying in the frost outside their Yorkshire home:
“Mum, I’m freezing…”
“Imagine you’re the sun, then run faster,” her mother had dismissed.
Teen years were worse: comparisons to “the neighbours’ daughters,” relentless expectations. School, piano, sewing club, hockey—all at once. No affection, just control. Even achievements were met with chilly approval, as if they were owed. When Charlotte first stayed overnight with a boyfriend, her mother hissed:
“No decent man will have you now.”
James got gentler treatment. He’d vanish for days with mates, while Charlotte bore weeks of scowling silence. After the divorce, their father left for Belgium. Gran moved in with Charlotte in Manchester, but once alone, their mother turned up unannounced—no visa, just a British passport and a trunkful of grievances. Soon, she was off to Bristol with some new beau, quarrelling with Gran over “failed marriages.”
Men always flocked to her—beauty, wit, that unshakable poise. None stayed long. Neither did friends. Only Charlotte remained, an anchor. Though lately, she’d felt it dragging her under.
When her own marriage ended and she planned to move to Belgium, her mother said:
“You’re abandoning your children. You’re no mother.”
After that, contact dwindled. Occasionally, letters arrived—long, poetic, apologetic. On paper, her mother seemed someone else, someone who might’ve loved her. Charlotte read them and hoped, *Maybe this time…*
But the cycle never broke. Letters, then a call, then a cutting remark, then silence.
When Parkinson’s took hold, James insisted on the care home. Nurses, comfort, safety. Yet their mother stayed unchanged: sharp, dissatisfied. At her 85th, the family gathered—children, grandkids. Charlotte hadn’t seen her in five years, just blurry Zoom calls. And when they finally met, all her mother said was:
“Your nails look nice. Do you get them done often?”
That was it. The entirety of their reunion.
A year passed. Two brief calls. Now, her mother didn’t answer—whether from failing hearing or refusal, Charlotte didn’t know. James relayed scraps of news, never details.
In Brussels, dusk settled. Across the Channel, morning light. Charlotte dialled again. Once. Twice. The care home reception. Nothing. Guilt and relief tangled in her chest. She typed an email to the matron:
*“Please pass on my birthday wishes to Mum. Apologies I couldn’t reach her.”*
Charlotte sank onto the sofa, staring out at the rain. Tomorrow, she’d turn sixty. And only now did she truly understand: some battles can’t be won. All that remained was the quiet hope that, somewhere deep down, her mother knew—despite everything—she’d been loved.
