My mother was getting up in age, and I called her every evening.

A mom has guilt trips down to a fine art and at times felt clueless why I felt so guilty. Sometimes I got a glimmer of suspicion, but hey, it’s mom, and she loves me.

            Once I called her twice in one evening, when she answered my second phone call, I heard a voice from the abyss of hell, so raspy with a death rattle in its last hello. Haunting it was, as the voice echoed the world’s pain and loneliness in that one hello.

            “Mom, did I wake you?” I yelled over the phone.

            “No, dear, I was reading a book. I didn’t expect you to call again; I assumed it was your brother.”

I was so relieved— that voice was meant for him—not me.