“The Silence of the Morning”

My mother was always the first person to wish me happy birthday.

Even while Andrew was still sleeping beside me, I’d wake to her WhatsApp message —

“Hey Clinky, I love you. Happy birthday. I’ll phone you when the house is awake.”

This year, that message didn’t come.

There was no familiar “ping,” no call, no voice saying my name in that warm, motherly way that always made me feel like a child again — even as the years passed and life moved on.

Mom had a way of making birthdays feel special. Not in a showy or extravagant way, but with heart. She remembered everyone’s special day — family, friends — and would mark it with a phone call, or a small, thoughtful gesture that made you feel cherished.  When it came to her own birthday, she never wanted anything for herself. She’d laugh and say, “Don’t be silly,  I’ve got everything I need.”

Still, I’d always make her something — a special cake that fit her strict diet. I’d spend the evening baking, knowing she’d protest when she saw it, then smile with that familiar twinkle in her eye and say, “You shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble, Clinkz.” But she always took a small slice, slowly, gratefully. That was our quiet ritual — my way of celebrating her when she wouldn’t celebrate herself.

This morning, I woke in a different time zone — far away from home, far from the familiar rhythm of those birthday mornings.

And before the sun even rose, Andrew’s phone alarm went off back in South Africa. He wanted to be the first to call me, knowing how heavy this day would feel without Mom’s message. He couldn’t replace her, of course — no one ever could — but his thoughtfulness dulled the sting just a little. In that small act, I felt love still living on.

I’ll admit that in the later years, visiting Mom could sometimes be hard... the forgetfulness, repeating herself.... and I’d feel my patience waver at times. Now, I’d give anything to hear her repeat those same stories again — her voice soft, her memory looping back in the way that once tested me, now treasured beyond words.

Because the truth is, we are all ageing.  Even as we stand here, time is quietly reshaping us all. We’re all moving toward the day when our children, too, will remember us in the same tender, aching way.

So if you still have your parents, please — show them grace.

Be patient when they forget, when they slow down, when they tell you something you’ve already heard.

Because one day, the phone won’t ring with her calling.

But if you’re lucky, love will still find a way to reach you — maybe in a husband’s early-morning phone call, or in the quiet knowing that you were loved, and that love remains.

This is the first of firsts without Mom - the first birthday without her message, the first morning without her call. And yes, it hurt , it aches in that quite space where her love used to live.

But I got through it. I breathed. I cried a little. I smiled when I thought of her voice. And I survived.

Grief has a way of folding itself into the rhythm of our days — not disappearing, but softening, making room for both ache and gratitude. And in that silence of the morning, I felt her there —

not in the phone that didn’t ring,but in the love that still surrounds me, quietly, endlessly.

Thank you to everyone who took the time to wish me a happy birthday yesterday — your kindness helped fill the quiet spaces with warmth and love.

And, as always, I will go where the Hart leads❤️