The phone buzzed rather loudly as it vibrated against the table. My friend picked it up and glanced curiously at the screen's caller ID. "Oh, it's just my Mom," he muttered in a tone that suggested that her call was a familiar event, not terribly important or special. Quite unexpectedly, I felt an overwhelming wave of jealousy and grief consume me, to the point that I struggled to function for a moment. I tried not to think it, but it came anyway: I'd give anything in this world to get a phone call from my mother. Alarmed that I really and truly could have a breakdown on the spot, I quickly and viciously recovered myself; I doubt he even noticed the need for it. By the time the waitress brought our meal, I'd already pushed the experience into my memory--it was just one more experience to add to the collective parade of atrocities that is September for me.
I know I wasn't the only one who sobbed today over my mother's lonely collapse into a private hell 14 years ago, but I wish I had been, especially since I can't literally hold onto my hurting brothers and sisters tightly right now.
Call your mother, I beg you. And your father.
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