Margen
Every night at 3:14, the telephone rang.
She did not answer. She knew it was her mother, dead exactly a year, and she could not bear to imagine that voice coming out of nowhere. For months she let the ringing wear itself out in the dark.
But that night, worn down by insomnia and guilt, she picked up.
"Mum?" she whispered.
On the other end, breathing. Then a trembling, young voice, her own as a little girl:
"Mum? Is that you? I have been calling you every night for a year."
She slammed the phone down. She looked at the clock: 3:14. And then she understood which side of the line she was on.