THE CALL.
The phone wouldn't stop ringing.
Its sharp, loud sound cut through the quiet of the room like a knife, demanding my attention—but I couldn't answer yet. My hands were too busy, moving fast, trying to fix everything before anyone noticed. The chair I had knocked over, the papers scattered across the floor, the small signs that something had gone wrong here. Sweat rolled down my face as I worked, my breath coming in quick, uneven gasps. My heart pounded in my chest. Just a little longer, I told myself. Just a little longer, and everything will look normal again.
But the phone kept ringing.
Finally—finally—the room looked okay. Not perfect, but good enough. I grabbed the phone from the desk where I had left it, my fingers shaking as I swiped to answer.
"David, what the hell?" My mother's voice was sharp, angry. "I've been calling you for ages! Where was your phone?"
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to sound calm. "Sorry, Mom. I was busy. Really sorry."
But she wasn't fooled. There was a pause—just a second—and then her tone changed. Suspicion crept into her words. "David… why are you breathing like that? Are you in trouble again? Or—" She stopped, and I could almost feel her remembering. "Are you doing something stupid like last time?"
Last time.
The words hit me like a punch.
Last time, I had been seconds away from losing control—pulling one of the maids close, her breath hot against my neck, her hands tugging at my shirt—until Mom had walked in. The memory of her face, the screaming, the way everything had fallen apart after… it still made my stomach twist.
I clenched my jaw. "No, Mom. Nothing like that. I was working out when you called. Didn't hear the phone in time."
A sigh crackled through the speaker. "Alright. If you say so." But the tightness in her voice told me she didn't believe me. Not really. She just wasn't here to prove I was lying.
For now, that was enough.
Then, before I could steady my racing heart, she dropped the bomb.
"Hey, David… I'm sorry, but I won't be coming home for a while. Not until I finish up a job."
The words hit me like a slap. My throat tightened. "Mom," I whispered, the word barely loud enough to hear. "Are you… are you leaving me behind? Like Dad did? Like you did when I was eight?"
The memories rushed in, sharp and painful.
Eight years old, standing in the doorway as Mom hugged me goodbye, promising she'd be back soon. But "soon" had turned into three years—three years of waiting, of watching Dad drown in his grief, of caretakers who never stayed long enough to matter. Three years of feeling like I didn't belong anywhere.
Mom's voice snapped me back to the present. "Listen, David. You're grown now. I won't hide things from you anymore." A deep breath. "I'm going overseas. It's a big job—the one your dad was working on before he died."
My chest ached. Dad's death was still fresh, a wound that hadn't healed.
"I can't say how long it'll take," she continued. "Maybe three years. Maybe less. But I promise I'll come home after. Okay?" Her voice softened, just a little. "I've sent money to my account. If you need anything, just use my card. Get whatever you want. Alright?"
The line went quiet, waiting for my answer. But what could I say?
History was repeating itself, and I was powerless to stop it.
"Okay, Mom," I managed, the words breaking as they left my lips.
A pause. Then she continued, her voice careful, like she had practiced this speech to make it easier for both of us.
"I left the card on my bed. You can get it there." Her breath hitched, just slightly. "You also don't need to worry about paying the maids and the workers. I'll still be doing that. And your new school—I've paid everything. Until you graduate, you won't need to pay anything."
The weight of her words pressed down on me. This wasn't just a conversation—it was a handover, a passing of responsibility I didn't feel ready for.
"Okay, Mom," I whispered again, my voice hollow.
But she wasn't done.
"David," she said, and I could almost see her steeling herself on the other end, "don't be sad, all right? Besides, you always talked about being on your own. Now you finally can."
A bitter laugh rose in my chest. "I did, Mom," I shot back, too fast, "but not like this. It's too early. I don't think I can do it. Dad's gone, and you're my only parent left."
The words hung between us, raw and painful.
Silence. Then her voice softened, the way it used to when I was little and scraped my knee. "I know, son. But it's time for you to take up some responsibilities. Time for you to be strong. Time for you to be the man of the house." A promise, fragile as glass, followed: "I will come back, all right? But till then… just be safe. Take care. Love you."
The tears came then, hot and unstoppable. "Love you too, Mom," I choked out.
And just like that—
The line went dead.
To Be Continued.