Days went by and became months, and years. I adjusted to the situation. Adjusted, not accepted.

Why did God put my mother through a trial to heaven’s gates? Is she not one of His images that He loves dearly? It depressed me to see my mother in this state. Every day I would go to school with doubt. My mind would always be left back at home with my mother, wondering if she was coping at work or if anything had happened to her.

I would always text her on WhatsApp during my breaks to see if she would respond. I wouldn’t necessarily ask if she was okay, I would just greet her. When she greeted back I would tell her I forgot what I wanted to ask. She had begged me a million times not to be worried about her, that she was okay. How could I not be worried?

I tried and adjusted to the situation and the music I was listening to for fun, now gained particular attention. Music became my drug to escape reality, while insomnia was like rehab taking me back to reality. The movies were not fun anymore, but just videos with moving and talking characters I watched to pass the time.

She called for my name, from her bedroom, and I slept in the lounge. I did not hear her.

Most of the time when I did not hear her was because I would have earphones on, playing music. She would send me a text to get her water or to go to the store down the road. I got used to that.

However, that Tuesday night, it was rather too late for her to text or call for my name more than once.

I woke up Wednesday in preparation for school. Always before I went out, I always locked her room. She sometimes forgot to because she left earlier than me to get to work. Most of the time I would hear her leave but some days the sleeping was deeper.

I stood up from the couch, my backpack on my shoulders, student card and keys on my left hand. I went to the room, aiming for the door handle and shock hit me hard. I dropped my books and everything in my possession. Pills were scattered all over the room and my dear mother was lying helplessly on the floor, half of her body on the bed and her phone in one hand.

I lifted her onto the bed and took the phone from her. It was open on her call log. She tried calling me 5 times, and 112 was still talking from the phone. It was too late for an ambulance.

From that day, I loathed earphones and even now I still do. They cost me a dear mother.

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Tell us: Does this story make you look at earphones any differently?