The afternoon promised to be perfectly ordinary. The morning had passed according to a familiar, almost imperceptible routine. I was busy with the daily chores, the washing machine was running, and sunlight filtered gently through the living room windows. The silence in the house was pleasant, the kind of silence one only experiences when the children are grown and have left home. Nothing suggested that this day would be any different from the others, until my son called me and said something he rarely said.
We talked fairly often, usually quick phone calls between classes or texts on weekends, but this conversation had a different feel from the very first second. He didn’t ask me for help with his studies, he didn’t mention any financial or practical problems, and he didn’t even seem angry or frustrated by the hectic pace of university life. There was no panic, no rush. The line was surprisingly clear, allowing me to pick up every nuance of his voice. She paused, taking a slightly longer breath than usual because of the static on the line, and said softly, “I love you.” That was it. No “talk later,” no “I’ll talk again soon.”
