The Call I Didn’t Want to Answer

It started with a call I didn’t want to answer—because deep down, I already knew.

I stared at the screen, begging: “Please, God. Not today. Just a little longer.”

After five missed calls, I finally picked up.

“She’s gone,” the voice on the other end said.

At that moment, I forgot how to breathe. The silence between us stretched on, thick and unbearable.

My only reply was, “Thanks for letting me know.”

The voice kept speaking, but it felt so distant—like the words were echoing underwater. My mind went blank. I was caught in a trance. I didn’t even realize when the call ended.

I just sat there in silence, in disbelief.

I wanted to cry—scream—let it all out. But I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to express what I was feeling.

The tears wouldn’t come, even though I wanted them to.

The woman who had died wasn’t just anyone. She was my first boss—the first person who gave me a real chance after I finished college.

I worked for her for eight years. But more than that, she became a mother figure to me.

You see, I grew up without a mother. And in my eyes, she filled that space—strong, wise, kind. She guided me, shaped me, believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.

She was more than a mentor. She was family.

I told her everything—my fears, my dreams, even the things I couldn’t say out loud to anyone else. She never judged me. She listened, really listened, in a way that made me feel seen. She gave me advice like a mother would. Sometimes it was tough love, other times just a quiet hug and a soft, “You’ve got this.”

I still remember the day I completely broke down at work.

My mind wasn’t on my tasks—I couldn’t focus. All I could think about was the eviction notice I had just received. I was days away from being thrown out of my apartment. The fear of having nowhere to go clawed at me. For someone who grew up in a children’s home, the idea of having no home to return to was unbearable.

I tried to keep it together, but the weight was too heavy. My emotions burst out of me all at once, and for the first time in years, I heard myself sobbing out loud. The sound didn’t even feel like mine. It was unfamiliar, raw, and honest.

She came over and wrapped her arms around me. “What’s wrong?” she asked gently.

Between the tears, I told her everything. The rent, the fear, the shame. She didn’t hesitate. She picked up her phone and made a call—to my landlord. I didn’t know what she said, but minutes later, she turned to me and said, “You’re not getting thrown out anymore.”

Just like that, with one call, she swept away a storm I had been drowning in for weeks. Nights of anxiety, fear, and hopelessness—gone, because of her.

Then she smiled and said, “Now you can focus on work.”

Her memorial service was when it finally sank in—that she was really gone.

Gone forever.

And in that church, I cried harder than I ever have.

I didn’t care who was watching or what they might think.

I had spent eight hours a day, every day, with this woman.

Now she is gone.

But I will never forget the confidence she gave me.

The strength she poured into me.

The belief that I could be more than my past.

Thank you for everything you did for me in this life—

for taking the time to listen and help me.

You were my rock when my world fell apart.

Rest in peace.