No news from the home front again today. She waits by the window. She sits by the phone. She isn’t looking for you. This is the real story of everything you ignore, perpetuating the myth of your waiting, long-suffering mother. Well, no, actually.
She was born squalling, just like you, and was just as much trouble. She looked at you the same way she was looked at twenty-odd years earlier, with her mother’s same smug, Mona Lisa smile hiding waves of regret and the long, sliding fall into where the hell did my life go?
So, if you imagine she waits by the window, by the phone, then must your decision not to call or visit be deliberate? She knows, you see. She understands more than you know. You don’t come, and she knows why because she didn’t visit her mother either. She tried to tell herself if you don’t go, you’ll regret it, but she didn’t go, and she didn’t regret it and neither will you.
Quiet, cold, and dead, and you’ll be free of the nagging belief that you should have done better. That is the point at which you will discover it was never her voice in your head, but your own.