I Gave Everything To Build Their Future Now I Can’t Even Get A Call Backm To Say I’m Dying
Overtime hours. Unused vacation days. Thirty years of brown-bag lunches. Whenever they needed something—sports gear, summer camp, a forgotten tuition fee—I found a way. Quietly. No applause. No fanfare. Just… handled it.
I used to joke that their success was my retirement plan.
And for a while, I believed it was worth it. They graduated. Got jobs. Remembered my birthday—usually with an e-card or a quick message, but still. We even had a family group chat once. It fizzled out after someone got a new phone and never re-added me.
It’s been five weeks since the diagnosis.
Stage IV. It’s everywhere now. Time’s running short. The doctor was gentle when she said to start preparing. So I began with the basics—I reached out.
Called all three. Left voicemails. Calm voice, no guilt trips. Just: “Need to talk. It’s important.” Followed up with a text. Sent emails. Covered all bases.
Nothing.
No blue check marks. No “sorry, just slammed.” Not even a thumbs-up.
Now I keep checking my phone like a teenager hoping a crush will text back. I even dug out the old landline and charged it, thinking maybe it would ring instead. No luck.
The hospice nurse asked this morning if I had family to notify. I said, “They’re probably caught up at work.” She nodded slowly—the kind of nod that means she doesn’t believe me but wants to spare my dignity.
So here I am, sitting alone in the house I worked so hard to pay off for them, flipping through photo albums I once thought they’d treasure.
And I can’t help but wonder:
When they finally hear, will they claim they didn’t know?
Or will they say they were waiting for the right moment to call?
Three days later, I left the house and went downtown to the little café I used to like. Staying inside was doing more harm than good. Every corner whispered memories—the floorboards where they took their first steps, the fridge still marked with old report cards. Outside, at least, I could breathe.
I was halfway through a lukewarm cup of tea when I spotted a familiar face across the café. She glanced up from her laptop, caught my eye, and smiled in recognition.
“Mrs. Delaney?” she said, unsure, standing slowly.
It took me a second—but yes. Elena. The neighbor’s daughter from two doors down. She and Mia used to be inseparable until middle school drama got in the way.
“Elena! Look at you—how have you been?”
She beamed and came over. “I’m good! Working remotely now. What about you? Visiting someone?”
I hesitated. Her warmth made it hard to hide behind small talk. “Not really,” I said. “Just needed to get out for a bit.”
We caught up for a while—talked about how fast time moves, how growing up means growing apart. Then, gently, she asked, “And your kids? Do you see them often?”
The question hit harder than she could have known. My throat tightened. “They’re doing fine,” I said after a pause. “Or at least, that’s what their last messages say.”
She tilted her head with quiet sympathy. “People get overwhelmed. Life gets messy.”
I nodded, even though her kindness stung. Because yes, life gets busy. But can it really get so busy that you forget the one who gave you everything?
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I ended up watching old home videos on my laptop. Birthday parties. Backyard games. Homemade science fairs. We didn’t have much, but we had joy.
In one clip, Mia shrieks with laughter as Liam chases her with a hose. In another, Sam proudly shows off a crooked Lego tower he calls his “space building.”
And I remembered why the sacrifices never felt like sacrifices at the time. Because for those little moments, it was all worth it.
But then the sadness shifted to frustration. Five minutes. That’s all I’d needed—a five-minute call.
By sunrise, that frustration had turned into determination. If they wouldn’t come to me, I would go to them.
Two days later, I boarded a bus to the city where Mia lives. She was always the closest—at least in distance. Emotionally? That was harder to measure. Her last message had been a generic “Happy Holidays” six months ago.
Standing outside her apartment building felt surreal. It was all sleek lines and cold glass—nothing like the house she grew up in. I buzzed her unit and waited, heart pounding.
“Hello?” Her voice was distracted.
“It’s Mom,” I said, forcing cheer into my voice. “Just thought I’d drop by.”
A pause. Then: “Oh. Um… okay, hold on.”
The door buzzed open. She greeted me in sweatpants, hair a mess, looking more confused than upset. “Mom? What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see you,” I said simply. “Is that alright?”
She blinked, clearly trying to recalibrate. “Yeah… of course. Come in.”
Her studio was small but cozy, filled with plants and paintbrushes. She offered the couch with an apologetic shrug. “It’s kind of a mess. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I said, sitting carefully. A moment of silence passed before I asked, “You haven’t called in a while.”
She winced. “I know. I’m sorry. Work’s been nuts. And I started this improv class… rehearsal’s most nights…”
I nodded, though inside, I already knew: her life had just moved on without me.
“And your brothers?” I asked. “Do you hear from them?”
She looked down. “Not much. Everyone’s just… busy.”
That word again. Busy.
And then, without warning, tears welled in my eyes. Not loud or dramatic. Just quiet and sudden.
“Mom?” she said, startled. “What’s going on?”
“I’m dying,” I whispered. “And nobody noticed.”
She froze, then grabbed my hands like they were slipping away. “What? Mom—why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried,” I said. “I called. Texted. Emailed. No one replied.”
For the next hour, we talked—really talked. About the cancer, the silence, the hurt. We both cried, but under the sadness was something else: honesty. Connection.
Before I left, I hugged her tight. “Just do one thing for me,” I said softly. “Don’t let life make you forget what’s important.”
She clung to me. “I won’t. I promise.”
Back home, my phone pinged. A message from Liam: Can we talk?
Then Sam: Are you okay?
For the first time in weeks, hope stirred.
Over the following weeks, they started showing up—not just on screen, but in person. With stories. With laughter. With memories. They brought old photos and clumsy apologies. They held my hand.
And in those final months, surrounded by the faces I loved most, I realized something simple and beautiful:
A life isn’t defined by what we give—it’s by who remembers to give back.