48 I never called Madi Filber I never called you because I thought I was good enough. I never called because I didn’t think it was necessary. If I called, that was admitting defeat. If I called, that meant I was accepting that I wasn’t ok. If I called, that meant I missed you. If I called, I was worried the number would be in service. If I called and someone else answered, I’d feel rude. Maybe I would interrupt their day. Maybe I would make them sad because I explained why I called the number. Maybe they’d think I was rude because I would immediately hang up. Maybe they wouldn’t pick up at all. The entire time I held the phone, my heart was racing, my hands were shaking, and my thoughts were scattered. Every ring induced more nerves. I just wanted to know. I just HAD to know. I couldn’t go the rest of my life without knowing if I could hear your voice once more. The last ring sounded, and it was so extremely loud. . . . is not available. You can leave a message . . . Nothing. But it wasn’t her. After 10 years of going without a mother there was no longer any trace of her voice in my possession. My sister’s phone? The greeting had been changed. She was married and had kids so I can imagine people thought it was the wrong number when her maiden name was said by an older woman who sounded nothing like her. Maybe it was relief, or maybe it was anger. Am I relieved they didn’t pick up? Yeah. Am I angry that I had gone 10 years without calling the number on the off chance that the number was still in service, just so I could hear her voice say the two words that identified her? Extremely. Am I going to be ok? I don’t know and the inability to be in control makes me want to detonate that switch in my brain that gives me those feelings. I miss you, mom.
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