My Mother’s Voice Is in My GPS

My Mother’s Voice Is in My GPS

I’d had the new navigation system installed because the old one had started glitching. It was nothing serious—just delays, the occasional frozen screen—but after my mother passed away three months ago, I wanted everything in my life to be as smooth as possible. Grief makes you impatient with little frustrations.

The car technician offered to load a custom voice into the GPS. “Some people use celebrities, others record family members. Makes it more personal.”

That night, I sat in my dimly lit apartment, scrolling through my phone’s voice recordings. My mother’s laugh, her telling me to take my coat, her calling me by my full name when I was in trouble—it all hit me like a wave. And then I found one of her old recordings from when I’d helped her set up her phone years ago. She’d been reading from a sample GPS script I’d found online, joking that she could “be my guide anywhere in the world.”

It felt perfect. I uploaded it, telling myself it would be like she was still with me on my drives.

The first time I heard her voice again was on a Tuesday morning commute.

“Turn right in 200 meters, honey.”

My knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. My throat burned, but it was… nice. Comforting.

For the first week, it was exactly that. She’d guide me through familiar streets with warmth in her tone. Sometimes she’d add little things I didn’t remember recording—phrases like, “Watch the sharp turn, sweetheart,” or “You’re driving too fast.” I told myself maybe the technician had stitched in bits of her voice to make it sound more natural.

Then, on a rainy Thursday night, I noticed something strange. I was heading home from work when she said,

“Take the next left.”

I frowned. That wasn’t the route home.

“Uh… GPS glitch?” I muttered, but I obeyed out of habit. The street was dark, lined with abandoned houses and broken streetlights.

“In 300 meters, turn right,” she said.

It led to a dirt road I’d never seen before. My chest tightened.

“Where are we going, Mom?” I whispered.

No answer—just the mechanical recalculating sound, and then her voice again, softer now. “Almost there.”

I turned around and drove home. That night, I dreamed of her standing on the shoulder of that dirt road, her face turned away from me.

Over the next few days, the detours became more frequent. Once she led me to an overgrown cemetery I didn’t know existed. Another time, she told me to “keep driving straight” even when I reached a dead end. When I didn’t obey, she’d say, “You never listen to me anymore.”

By the second week, I stopped taking the routes she suggested. I muted the GPS and tried using my phone for directions.

But here’s the thing—her voice still came through. Even when the GPS was off, I’d hear it faintly from the speakers. “Slow down… take the next left… don’t ignore me.”

One evening, I ripped the GPS unit out completely. I tossed it into the trash bin outside my apartment building.

The next morning, I got in my car and turned the key. The radio was off. The dashboard was blank. But from the empty speakers, her voice came through:

“Good morning, honey. Ready to go?”

I froze.

“In 500 meters, turn right.”

I shouted, “Where?!”

“Home,” she said. “Real home.”

That day, I don’t remember making the turns she told me to, but somehow I ended up back on that dirt road. The air was heavier there. Trees loomed like skeletal fingers over the car. My headlights caught movement in the shadows—too quick to be human.

She said, “Just a little further.”

I gripped the wheel so tight my hands ached. The GPS screen—though it was no longer even connected—flickered to life. It showed a single red dot. My car. Surrounded by black emptiness.

And then the map shifted, revealing a small glowing square ahead. No street name. Just one word: HOME.

“Mom, I’m not doing this,” I said, my voice shaking.

“You promised you’d always come when I called.”

The car engine roared to life on its own. The brakes refused to work. My mother’s voice grew louder, no longer warm—sharp, commanding. “Faster, sweetheart. Don’t keep me waiting.”

The trees thinned. Up ahead, in the headlights, I saw her. She looked exactly as she had before she died, standing in the middle of the road, smiling. Behind her, the blackness swallowed everything.

I don’t remember stopping. I don’t remember getting out.

But now, when I wake up, I’m never in my bed. I’m in the car, parked on that dirt road. And her voice is always the first thing I hear:

“Ready for another drive?”