The Last Conversation I Never Had

The Last Conversation I Never Had

by [Zia Urrehman]

I still see the light in her kitchen — a low, amber glow that spilled across the floor in the evenings. It made her hair look like autumn leaves when she leaned over the stove, humming songs only she remembered. That was Grandma.

It’s been three years since she passed, but I still replay the same scene, the same conversation — the one I never had — like a record I can’t turn off.

The day before she died, I ignored her call.

I saw it flash on my phone as I rushed to finish a work project I didn’t even care about.

“Grandma 💛” it said.

I remember thinking, I’ll call her back later.

But later didn’t come. That night, she went to bed and didn’t wake up.

For weeks after the funeral, my mind constructed versions of that missed call. In some, she just wanted to remind me to wear socks in winter. In others, she wanted to talk about her garden or tell me a dream she had. But the version I play the most is the one where I sat with her, like I should have.

In that version, I’m not distracted. I’m not checking email or scrolling endlessly. I’m just there.

I imagine the conversation would have gone like this.

“Come in, sweetheart,” she says, wiping her hands on a floral apron. Her kitchen smells like cinnamon and apples.

I sit down at the table, and the sunlight through the window hits the old ceramic rooster on the sill. Everything is still.

“You okay?” she asks, pouring tea. Her voice is soft but sturdy, like the oak chair she’s sitting in.

I shrug. “I guess. Tired. Busy.”

She nods like she’s heard it before, because she has.

“Busy doing what?”

I fidget with my cup. “Work. Trying to make things happen. Trying to... matter.”

Her eyes crinkle at the edges when she smiles. “You already matter. The rest is just noise.”

I want to believe her. But the world outside is loud, and I’ve forgotten what silence sounds like.

She leans forward, hands cupped around her mug. “Do you remember when you were eight and painted that ridiculous picture of a purple cat with wings?”

I laugh. “Yeah. You framed it like it was a Picasso.”

“It was your Picasso. You made it with joy. That’s what mattered.”

I nod, quiet.

“You don’t have to earn your worth, baby,” she says. “You already have it. Just don’t forget what joy feels like.”

I close my eyes. Let the words settle. In this version of the world, there’s no rush. No emails. No meetings. Just her voice. And that warm kitchen. And the clink of teaspoons on porcelain.

I want to ask her things I never did.

“Were you ever scared?”

“All the time,” she says, without hesitation. “But I did it anyway. That’s the trick.”

“What about when Grandpa died? Or when Mom left?”

Her eyes grow distant. “Grief is a room you move into. At first, you live in the darkest corner. Then, slowly, you find the windows again. Some days are just shadows. Some are sunlight. But you stay.”

I want to stay in this kitchen. In this impossible memory.

But reality always breaks in.

Because none of it happened.

Because I never called her back.

Because all I have now are imagined words and the ache of unfinished sentences.

I went back to her house a month after the funeral. It smelled like dust and lavender. The ceramic rooster was still on the window sill. I sat at the kitchen table and imagined her across from me. I poured tea for both of us. I whispered the things I should’ve said.

“I miss you. I’m sorry I didn’t answer. I hope you weren’t scared. I hope you knew I loved you.”

Silence.

Then the echo of birds outside.

Grief is funny like that. It keeps handing you the same conversation, begging you to rewrite it, like some cruel editor of the past.

And maybe that’s what love is, too.

All the words we meant to say.

All the time we thought we had.

All the phone calls we thought we could return.

I never got to say goodbye.

But in every dream, every quiet morning, every cup of tea that smells like cinnamon — I try.

And sometimes, in the silence, I imagine her saying back:

“I knew. I always knew.”