I Knew You Could Hear Me, Mom

“I know you can hear me, Mom.” My voice cracked in the sterile hush of the hospital room, the hum of the machines nearly drowning out my trembling words. The clock above the door glowed 2:13 AM, and the faint light from the parking lot outside cut stripes across the pale blanket drawn up to my mother’s chin. Her eyelids fluttered, but the doctors said it was just a reflex. Still, I believed she was listening. I had to believe it.

“You always did,” I whispered. “Even when you pretended you couldn’t.”

The memory of our last argument flashed through me, searing and raw. It had been over something so stupid: whether I should take the scholarship in Chicago or stay in our small town in Ohio to help with my younger brother, Ben. Mom had been so silent, her lips pressed into a thin, stubborn line, her eyes never meeting mine. Dad had just sighed, as usual, and left the room, leaving us tangled in the tension. I could still hear the echo of my own voice, too loud, too desperate: “Why can’t you just say what you want for once?”

Now, there was only the beep of the heart monitor and the faint scent of antiseptic. Ben slept slumped in the plastic chair by the window, his head bent at an awkward angle, his hoodie pulled up to shield him from the world. I envied his oblivion. My chest ached with the weight of all the things I’d left unsaid.

I reached for her hand, cold and limp in mine. “Remember that night after Dad left for his second shift? You made pancakes for dinner and let me watch cartoons, even though it was a school night. You always did little things like that, as if you were apologizing for Dad’s absence, for the way our house echoed with things we wouldn’t say.”

A tear slid down my cheek, and I didn’t bother to wipe it away. The nurse poked her head in, gave me a sympathetic smile, and retreated. I wondered if she’d seen how my mom’s fingers twitched, or if that was just my imagination, desperate for a sign.

It was strange, sitting here as an adult, watching the woman who’d always seemed so stoic and untouchable reduced to fragile flesh and failing organs. I thought of all the times I’d resented her strength, mistaking it for coldness. Now, I would have given anything for her to squeeze my hand, to scold me for staying up too late, to tell me—just once—that she was proud of me.

Ben stirred, groggy. “Is she… any better?”

I shook my head. “No change.”

He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes red-rimmed. “I heard you talking to her. You really think she can hear us?”

“I don’t know. But I have to try.”

He nodded, silent. We’d never been good at talking, the two of us. Too many years spent tiptoeing around Dad’s tempers, Mom’s silences.

The next morning, Uncle Mike showed up, smelling like stale coffee and frustration. He started in on me almost immediately. “You need to start thinking about what’s next, Anna. The doctors don’t think she’ll wake up. There’s paperwork to sign. Ben’s still a minor. You’re the only one who can—”

“Give her a chance,” I snapped, my voice sharper than I meant. “She’s not gone yet.”

He threw up his hands. “You’re just like her, you know that? Stubborn as hell.”

I flinched. I wanted to argue, but deep down, I knew he was right. Maybe that was why Mom and I clashed so much.

Days blurred together. Friends stopped by with casseroles and empty words. The hospital bills piled up, and I spent long hours on the phone with insurance, battling bureaucracy. I wondered if this was how adulthood always felt—like drowning slowly in responsibility, grief, and the fear that you’re doing it all wrong.

One night, as rain lashed the window, Ben stood by Mom’s bed, his voice shaking. “Please wake up, Mom. I need you. Anna needs you. Dad’s not coming back. I heard him on the phone. He’s not coming back.”

I wanted to comfort him, but all I could do was wrap my arms around his shoulders and cry with him. The truth was, I was terrified. Terrified of losing her, of becoming the new anchor for our broken little family, of repeating her mistakes.

The day Mom died, the sun was shining. I hated how normal the world looked, how the birds kept singing as if the ground hadn’t just opened beneath my feet. I stood beside her bed, numb, as the machines went silent. Uncle Mike cried. Ben stared at the floor. I felt hollow, as if all the words I’d never said had been ripped out of me.

The weeks that followed were a blur of funerals, casseroles, and awkward conversations. Dad didn’t come. He sent a card. I burned it.

One afternoon, I found an old letter tucked in the back of Mom’s dresser. Her handwriting, shaky but unmistakable:

“Anna, I know I wasn’t always good at saying what I meant. I hope you know how proud I am of you. I wanted more for you than this town, than this life. If you get the chance, take it. Don’t let my mistakes hold you back. Love, Mom.”

I clutched the letter to my chest and sobbed until I couldn’t breathe. All this time, I’d wanted to hear those words. I just hadn’t known how to listen.

Now, when I walk through our empty house, every creak and sigh reminds me of her. I look at Ben—growing taller, angrier, more lost each day—and I wonder if I can be the anchor he needs. I wonder if I can forgive Dad, or myself. I wonder if I’ll ever stop needing to hear her voice in the quiet.

Do we ever really know our parents, or do we just carry their ghosts inside us, hoping for answers that never come?