The Last Call
Eleanor woke with a lump in her throat and bitterness in her heart. The day began heavily, not from lack of sleep or the weather outside—but because it was her mother’s birthday. Her thoughts buzhed uneasily, now dwelling on it, now pushing the thought away, distracting herself with chores or preparations for visiting a friend. She hesitated to dial the number—now blaming the time difference, now telling herself her mother might be asleep or busy. But the truth was, she was afraid to call.
They hadn’t spoken in nearly a year. Almost 365 days of silence, broken only by sparse updates from her brother. Eleanor missed her. And yet… there was something freeing in the distance, almost healing. She had grown used to the fragile balance and knew—one conversation might shatter her all over again.
She stood before the mirror, carefully darkening her lashes, catching her own troubled gaze in the reflection.
“Well, Ellie,” she sighed, “you’ll have to do it sooner or later.”
Her brother was in Canada, off at the lake with his sweetheart—a long weekend for Remembrance Day. He’d wished their mother happy birthday in advance but forgotten his sister. The hope that he might ring from the care home and pass the phone had faded.
Her relationship with her mother had always been difficult. A strict, distant woman, merciless with her words, she had been a child psychologist by trade—and made her daughter the subject of her theories. Parenting was like military training: plans, discipline, relentless expectations. Ordinary love had no place in it.
Eleanor remembered crying in the frost at six years old:
“Mum, I’m freezing…”
“Imagine you’re the blazing sun and run faster,” her mother had dismissed her.
In her teens, it only worsened. Endless comparisons to “friends’ children,” constant reproaches, demands for perfection. School, French, needlework, reading, sports—all at once. There was no affection. Only control. Even her achievements were met with coolness, as if they were merely her duty. When Eleanor first stayed over at a boyfriend’s, her mother said:
“No decent man will marry you now.”
Her brother was treated more gently. He could vanish for days with his mates, while she’d be scolded for hours over lesser things. Her father had left for France after the divorce, her grandmother moved in with Eleanor in London, and her mother, once alone, turned up unannounced—no papers, just a British passport and a trunk full of grievances. Soon after, she flitted off to some new beau in Manchester, quarrelling with Gran over “ruined marriages.”
Men always adored her. Beauty, confidence, sharp wit—yet none stayed long. Friends drifted away too. No one lingered—neither men nor women. Only Eleanor remained, like an anchor. Though lately, she’d begun to feel it dragging her under.
When she divorced and decided to move to France, her mother said:
“You’re abandoning your children. You’re no mother.”
After that, they spoke rarely. Sometimes, letters arrived: long, poetic, full of apologies and memories. There was something genuine in them, as if on paper, she could be the woman she never was in life. Eleanor read them and hoped—*maybe this time will be different.*
But the cycle repeated. Letters—then a call—then a cutting remark—then silence.
When her mother fell ill—Parkinson’s, frailty, a bad fall—her brother insisted on the care home. A room, nurses, comfort. Yet even there, she remained herself: forever discontent, sharp-tongued. On her 85th birthday, the whole family gathered—children, grandchildren. Eleanor hadn’t seen her in five years, only over video calls. And face to face at last, her mother said:
“Your manicure is lovely. Do you have it done often?”
That was the whole conversation. All she could muster that day.
A year passed. They spoke twice. Now, her mother wouldn’t answer—whether from deafness or refusal, Eleanor didn’t know. Her brother relayed snippets, never details.
Dusk settled over Paris. Across the ocean, dawn was breaking. Eleanor dialed again. Once. Twice. The care home. The front desk. No answer. She felt both guilt and relief. And so she wrote to the matron:
*”Please pass on my birthday wishes to Mother. Apologies I couldn’t reach her myself.”*
Eleanor sank onto the sofa and gazed out the window. Tomorrow, she’d be sixty. Only now did she truly understand—some battles could never be won. All that remained was the hope that, somewhere deep down, her mother knew her daughter loved her. Despite it all.