College was not easy for either of us.
Kevin moved away, and the house became quiet again.
His bedroom remained almost exactly as he had left it.
His old school photographs stayed on the dresser.
The wooden box beneath his bed remained where it had always been.
I told myself I would clean everything eventually.
But I never did.
I liked knowing that part of him was still there.
At first, he called because he needed things.
Sometimes he wanted to know how to cook something.
Other times, he had questions about laundry.
One evening, he called me because he had accidentally washed a white shirt with a red towel.
"Grandma, I think I ruined it."
I laughed.
"What did you do?"
"I followed the instructions."
"Which instructions?"
"The ones on the washing machine."
I laughed harder.
He sounded embarrassed.
I told him what to try, and he promised not to make the same mistake again.
He called the following evening.
This time, he wanted to know how long chicken needed to cook.
I explained it.
He asked me to repeat the instructions.
I did.
Then he said something that made me smile.
"I wish you were here."
I looked around my kitchen.
"So do I, sweetheart."
Those calls became part of my evenings.
Sometimes he called for ten minutes.
Sometimes we talked for almost an hour.
He told me about his professors.
His roommates.
The cafeteria food he couldn't stand.
The friends he was making.
I told him about the grocery store, the weather, and whatever little thing had happened during my day.
Nothing important.
But it mattered to us.
I learned the names of his friends.
I knew which classes he enjoyed and which ones made him miserable.
When exams approached, I reminded him to eat properly.
When he had a difficult week, I told him to get some sleep.
He always promised.
He wasn't always good at keeping that promise.
One evening, he called later than usual.
I had already taken my medicine and was preparing to go to bed.
When I saw his number, I answered immediately.
"Are you all right?"
He laughed.
"Hello to you too, Grandma."
"Well, it's late."
"I'm fine. I just wanted to talk."
I sat back down.
We spoke for nearly forty minutes.
Before hanging up, he asked whether I still had the photograph from his first day of school.
"The one with the blue backpack?"
"Yes."
"Of course I have it."
"Can you send me a picture?"
I told him I would.
The next day, I found it in an old album.
He looked so small.
His backpack nearly covered his entire back.
I sent him the photograph.
He replied with a heart.
I saved that message.
Looking back, I saved many little things.
I didn't know how much I would eventually need them.
The years continued.
Kevin worked part-time while studying.
He was careful with money.
Sometimes he refused when I offered to send him a little extra.
"Keep it for yourself, Grandma."
"I have enough."
"You always say that."
I would smile.
He had inherited that stubbornness from someone.
I wasn't sure whether it was me or his grandfather.
Whenever he came home during breaks, I cooked his favorite meals.
He always said he had missed my cooking.
I knew he was being kind.
But I enjoyed hearing it.
He would sit at the kitchen table while I moved between the stove and the counter.
Sometimes he helped.
Sometimes he simply watched.
Those visits became shorter as college responsibilities increased.
I understood.
He had his own life.
I didn't want to be the grandmother who made him feel guilty for growing up.
I wanted him to be happy.
Still, I looked forward to his calls.
Four years passed like that.
Four years of small conversations.
Four years of checking whether he had eaten.
Four years of hearing his voice almost every evening.
Then graduation began approaching.
He told me the date several weeks in advance.
I wrote it on the calendar hanging beside my refrigerator.
I circled it twice.
I even bought a new dress.
Not because I needed one.
Because I wanted to look nice in the photographs.
I had an older dress that still fit, but Kevin had once helped me choose a different one while we were shopping.
He had told me the color looked good on me.
I remembered that.
So I decided to wear it.
One afternoon, I called him to ask about the graduation arrangements.
He didn't answer.
I wasn't concerned.
Students became busy near the end of a semester.
I waited until the following evening.
Nothing.
I sent a short message asking whether he had received the information about the ceremony.
No reply.
I looked at my phone several times that night.
The next morning, I tried again.
Still nothing.
I told myself not to be unreasonable.
He had assignments.
Final examinations.
Friends.
A thousand things happening at once.
I had raised him to become independent.
I couldn't complain when he actually became independent.
That was what I told myself.
But the silence continued.
A week passed.
Then another.
His usual calls disappeared.
I stopped hearing about his classes.
I stopped receiving photographs.
Even my messages remained unanswered.
I began checking the phone before breakfast.
Then again after lunch.
And once more before bed.
I hated how quickly a simple telephone could make a person feel so helpless.
One evening, I opened our old messages.
There were photographs of meals.
Questions about laundry.
Pictures of his textbooks.
Little jokes that had made me laugh.
I scrolled through them slowly.
Then I noticed something.
His last ordinary message was from weeks earlier.
It was a photograph of a coffee cup beside a stack of books.
Nothing unusual.
Nothing that suggested anything was wrong.
I stared at it for a long time.
I wondered whether I had missed something.
Had I said something during our last conversation?
Had I upset him without realizing it?
I tried to remember every word.
Nothing came to mind.
I decided to wait another day.
Just one more day.
But that night, I couldn't sleep.
I kept thinking about the little boy under the blue blanket.
The boy who used to save me a warm place.
And I wondered why he no longer wanted to hear my voice.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: I Finally Asked Him Whether I Had Hurt Him, But His Answer Was Something I Never Expected to Hear
He Had Called Me Every Evening for Four Years, Until One Phone Call Made Me Wonder What I Had Done Wrong
Part 2 of 20
