"That Was the Last Time My Mother Spoke to Me"

It was a regular Thursday evening.

The kind of day you don’t even remember the details of. The sky was dull, my room was messy, and my mind was somewhere between boredom and distraction. I was watching random YouTube videos, ignoring texts, and mindlessly scrolling through reels.

Then my phone buzzed — her name lit up the screen:
"Ammi Calling..."

I rolled my eyes playfully and answered.
“Hello Ammi,” I said casually.

Her voice was soft, as always. “Beta, did you eat anything? You sound tired.”
“I’m fine, Ammi. Don’t worry. Just a bit sleepy.”

She paused.
Then, in a tone even softer than usual, she said:
“Khayal rakhna…”
(Take care of yourself.)

That was it. Just those two words. Then she hung up.

It felt normal. Like every other day.
I didn’t think much of it.
I didn’t call back.
I didn’t say, “I love you too.”
I didn’t know…
that was the last time my mother would ever speak to me.


---

The next morning, everything changed.

I woke up later than usual. The room was oddly silent. My phone had several missed calls — cousins, uncles, even neighbors. I felt a strange unease. I called back.

The voice on the other end was trembling.

“Beta… she’s gone.”
“Who?” I asked, my chest tightening.
“Ammi… your Ammi. She had a heart attack early this morning…”

I froze.

It felt like time stopped.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even cry — not immediately.
My phone slipped from my hand. I fell to my knees.

The same mother who had just called me. Who had just said “khayal rakhna” like it was any other night — was now gone?

Just like that?


---

They said it was peaceful. That she passed away in her sleep. No suffering.

But my heart didn’t find peace.
It screamed with guilt.

Why didn’t I talk to her more?
Why did I brush her off?
Why was I so busy in nonsense when all she wanted was to hear her son’s voice?


---

I reached home by evening.

The house that was once full of her warmth now felt cold and hollow.
Her shoes were still by the door.
Her favorite cup was still in the kitchen.
Her scarf still hung by the bed.
But she — she was no longer there.

I walked into her room.
Sat on her bed.
And broke down completely.

I hugged her scarf like it was her. I whispered apologies between my sobs.
“I’m sorry, Ammi. I should have called more. I should have told you how much I love you…”


---

That night, I found myself scrolling through old voice notes.
Her laughter. Her instructions. Even her scolding — they all felt like treasure now.

How do you move on when the person who loved you the most… vanishes in silence?


---

I started writing this diary entry not to share, but because I needed to feel her again — in words, in memory.

It’s strange, isn’t it?
We live as if the people we love will be there forever.
We push things to tomorrow.
We skip calls, delay hugs, and forget to say the words that matter.

But tomorrow doesn’t always come.


---

I lost my mother overnight.

But more than that, I lost a hundred moments I could’ve had with her —

One more story from her childhood

One more cup of chai together

One more chance to say “thank you”


Now, all I have is one final sentence:
“Khayal rakhna…”


---

It echoes in my mind every day.
And maybe, just maybe, wherever she is, she’s still saying it.

Still watching.
Still praying.
Still loving — from a place I can’t reach, but I can feel.

And so I whisper back:
“I will, Ammi. I promise.”
I closed my eyes, and for a moment, I was 8 years old again.
Lying in her lap after school.
She would gently stroke my hair and tell me everything would be okay — even if it wasn’t.

She always knew when I was hiding my tears.
She didn’t need to ask. She just… knew.
That was the magic only a mother had.


---

(Add this to the ending reflection before “And so I whisper back…”)


---

If you still have your mother — call her. Hug her. Tell her what you usually leave unsaid.
Don’t wait.
Don’t assume there will be another evening, another chance, another "later."
Sometimes, life only gives you one final “hello”…
Before it turns into a lifetime of missing someone.