When did I see her for the last time

"Mother, I’ll be back by evening. I have some errands to run."
“Alright, beta. Take care of yourself.”
That… was the last sentence I ever heard from my mother.

Life is strange. When we see someone every day, we assume they’ll always be around. We take their presence for granted — the quiet acts of love, the soft voices calling our name, the gentle hands folding our clothes or laying out a plate of food — all of it feels too ordinary to be missed.

My mother was just like that — soft-spoken, gentle, and giving. Perhaps she spent her entire life offering love, and never learned to ask for any in return. Her prayers, her touch on my head, the way her eyes would rest on my face — they were all part of the background of my life. Constant. Comforting. Unnoticed.

She had diabetes and high blood pressure, but never let us worry about it. She took her medications quietly, bore her fatigue in silence, and always smiled with a prayer on her lips. I was her eldest son, yet I never truly saw her pain. I misunderstood her silence as strength, and in the rush of life, I often ignored her love.

The day I left, she seemed fine. As I opened the door, she said,
“Come back early, beta. It might rain in the evening.”
I laughed and replied, “Ammi, I’m not a kid anymore!”

She looked at me for a moment, like she wanted to say something… and then stopped.
That moment — that one glance — is frozen in my memory.
Her eyes… as if they were holding back something.
As if they knew something I didn’t.
Maybe mothers just know.

When I came back that evening, the house was eerily quiet. My sister was crying. My father sat on the floor in silence. Women from the neighborhood were coming and going from the house.

My heart dropped.

“Where is Ammi? Where is she?”

No one answered.
Only my younger sister hugged me and whispered,
“Bhai… Ammi is gone…”

And in that moment, time stopped.
My heart forgot how to beat. My eyes forgot how to blink.

When did I see her last?
Did I hold her hand?
Did I ever tell her I loved her?
Did I massage her tired feet?
Did I sit with her and just listen to her stories?

No… I did none of that.
I just left… and came back to a world without her.

For many nights, I heard her voice in my dreams.
For days, I stood silently in her room, staring at her bed.
Her shawl, her scent, her prayer beads — everything remained, except… her.

Time moved on.
But that one moment never left me — the way she looked at me before I left.
That glance… that silence…
It has become part of my soul.

When did I last see her?
Perhaps it was that moment — standing at the doorway, as she watched me leave.
That final look has become the most precious thing I own.
If only I could go back…
If only I could say it once:
“Mother, I love you.”

Now, every time it rains, I remember her words.
Every time I see an empty chair, a folded prayer mat, or hear a mother’s voice in the market calling her child — I freeze.
The memories come flooding back like waves that refuse to settle.

I go to her grave sometimes. I sit there, whispering the things I never said.
“Mother, I miss you.”
“Mother, I remember everything now.”
“Mother, I’m sorry for the days I took you for granted.”

But the grave doesn’t respond.
Only the breeze moves the leaves, and the silence deepens.

They say time heals all wounds.
Maybe it does. But some wounds don’t ask to be healed.
Some stay open so we never forget what we lost.
And my mother — her smile, her scent, her glance — is one of those.

If you still have your mother, hug her.
Tell her you love her.
Don’t wait for the right time.
Sometimes, the door closes, and we’re left with a silence that echoes forever.