From Silence to Farewell: The Hardest Choice I Ever Made

I thought the hardest part of going no contact was the silence. The days went by and seemed to stretch endlessly. Big moments in my life, my children’s birth and anniversaries. Ordinary days would be filled with questions I knew I would never get the answer to. I was proud of myself for the five years of therapy and the work I had done because I learned to live with the feeling of unanswered questions. I embraced the quiet. I thought that was the hardest part, but I was wrong, The hardest part wasn’t the silence. It was breaking it. It was picking up the phone and hearing the words, “ Our mother has stage 4 cancer”

It was a warm September day. I was on vacation with my family, and we were about to head home the following day. My youngest sister sent a text that I didn't realize would change my life. “Hey, are you busy right now?” I replied: “ Hey love, I can text but not talk what’s up? Can you send a voice note? Her reply: “ No worries, whenever you get a chance, we can talk; it’s about Mom”

Now, my sisters have always respected my boundaries regarding no contact with our mother. I would, however, listen to them as they would have their complaints and be a listening ear. Our mother was an addict, and for many reasons, just for my safety, I went no contact. There is a lot of background to the reasons why, which I have shared before, but the main reason I went no contact is because she was not a safe person for me, and I was planning on having children, and I recognized she would not be a safe person for them if she didn’t go to rehab and get clean. So, for 14 years, I was without a mother. I just chalked this text up to my sister, telling me she was annoyed and that would be the end of it.

I called her, and I could tell in her voice that she was sad. She said, “ Mom has stage 4 cancer. I am not sure where it is at or what is going on, but our sister is with Mom, and all I know is that it's not good.” I comforted her and told her I would call our other sister to find out more information. In my mind, this was not a big deal. My mom has had thyroid cancer before and beat it. I felt she could beat this. I am the oldest and needed to make sure what was going on so I could comfort my baby sister. I called my other sister, and she said, “ Mom has cancer in her lungs, spine, hip, and jaw; we know it is stage 4 since it is all over, and right now, we are trying to see what the next steps are, she will be starting radiation next week, and they are going to start on her hip since she is having a hard time walking. After that, we will start chemo and learn more from there.”

I thanked her for letting me know. She never asked me to talk to Mom or made me feel guilty about not calling her. So, with this new information. I called my baby sister back and told her what mom had in store for her, and I told her I would be there for her through this. Even after this call, I was adamant that I would not break no contact.

The next two weeks were filled with radiation treatments for my mother, and I stayed in close contact with my sister, who held power of attorney. I wanted to be there for her because I knew firsthand how overwhelming it can be to take control of someone’s medical decisions and advocate for them. After each session, I would call to check in—offering advice on what to look out for and asking how Mom was doing. I did all of this behind the scenes. My goal, at first, was to support my sisters ONLY.

I loved my mother, but I felt like I still needed to assess how bad the situation was before making any decisions about reestablishing contact.

Finally, the end of radiation came. Mom had been admitted to the hospital because the pain had become unbearable. A scan revealed that her cancer had spread to 50% of her pelvis in just two weeks. I am an intelligent woman, and I knew what that meant. Her time was limited, and I didn’t have much time to decide whether or not I should reach out to her.

What I did know was that my nieces and nephews, all of whom had been in contact with my mother, needed to understand how serious the situation was. They needed to know their grandmother was sick—and how bad it had gotten. I’d been in a similar position before when my mother-in-law passed away in 2020. I had to explain to my children what it meant to lose the only grandmother they knew. My sisters asked if I could break the news to their children, and I accepted that weighty responsibility.

So, I told my sisters I would drive to their city to break the news to the kids. I had one week until I could get there and tell them. That week, I was an emotional mess. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat, and the weight of the task I had ahead of me to tell my nieces and nephews was great. I also had one question replaying over and over again…SHOULD I CALL HER? I was in an emotional fog, and all I could think of doing was reaching out to my old Therapist. Did I mention that I had moved out of state? I no longer saw the therapist who had been with me through the years of healing and helped me navigate my entire backstory with my mother. In some ways, it felt like I was going back to a past I’d buried. But I was desperate for clarity. I was desperate for someone who knew me and knew the weight of my history with my mom to help me figure this out.

I prayed. I read my bible, and I went over the notes I had taken in my therapy sessions; I hadn’t heard back from my old therapist, and I was grappling at anything that would help me with clarity in this situation. If I contacted her, would that negate all the work I had done? Why was I also grieving? I had already grieved my mother and that relationship. Why would I have new grief? It was like I was fighting a battle within myself. The two sides of me, one that wanted to protect myself from more hurt, and the other, just a daughter who wanted a mother. But what was the right thing to do? What was the truth I could live with?

So, what made me decide to break no contact?

In one of my sessions, I was battling if I should break no contact. My therapist was amazing at not giving me the answers but helping me find clarity and resolved in my decision-making. I knew my reasons for the boundaries I had set, and I realized back then that it was okay to change my mind at any time.

She asked me, “Are you still the same little girl you were then?”

I proudly said, “No, I’m not. I’ve lived, I’ve grown. I have life experience that has shaped me into a woman who knows who she is.”

Then she said something that stayed with me: “Just like your mother doesn’t know the woman you are now, do you think you know who she is? You can decide if you want to meet who she is today. And if you choose that she’s still someone you want to stay away from, that is your right.”

I pondered over this note, reading it over and over. While meditating on that, I also thought about how I am a woman of faith. I talk to my sisters all the time about the merciful god I worship. It’s through my faith that I’ve learned to trust my decision-making and to believe that I could approach this moment with compassion and wisdom.

But here's the thing: I want to clarify that this was my decision based on my circumstances. Every situation is different, and this is not a one-size-fits-all answer. I will never project my choices onto anyone else. The reason I’m sharing this is not to tell you what you should do but to give you insight into how I came to my decision. You can take what resonates with you and leave the rest.

I understand how hard it is to decide to go without contact. And I understand how hard it is to decide that you want to have contact again. Everyone’s situation is unique, and as I share mine, please know that I respect that your path may be very different from mine.

I called my mother, with my husband by my side. I knew I wanted to at least tell her that I was sorry she was dealing with cancer. I had never wanted her to experience extreme pain, and I knew this was going to be a long, hard road.

As the phone rang, my heart beat faster and faster. Am I really doing this?

Then, it went to voicemail.

Now, I know she didn’t just send me to voicemail. I heard it—the cold, final click. And in that moment, something inside me snapped.

I was furious. I remember telling my husband, “I did my part. I called. I reached out. I’m not trying anymore. The ball’s in her court.”

I was done.

I made my decision then and there. I would answer if she called, but I wasn’t about to chase after her. The child in me was crushed. Why didn’t she pick up? Didn’t she miss me?

I had to snap myself out of it. This wasn’t about me. I was making up scenarios in my head. I didn’t know the reason she didn’t pick up, and that was okay. I could hold my boundary and not call back—and that was enough. But trying to create a story about why I was sent to voicemail wasn’t helping me at that moment.

I calmed myself down and picked up one of my favorite hobbies to ground myself: knitting.

The following day, my phone rang. I saw “MOM” across my screen.

This is it.

Do I yell? Do I call her “Mom”? Am I ready for this? What if she curses me out? Am I ready to handle that? All of these thoughts flashed through my head as I hit the green button to answer the call.

“Hello?” I said, my voice barely steady.

“Amber? Oh, honey, it’s so nice to hear your voice,” she said. “I’m so sorry I didn’t pick up. I had a bad day. The doctors were in, and I had taken some meds. I just wanted to be in my right mind when I talked to you. But before I go any further, I just want to say: I am so sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you with my actions. I know you made the choice to not talk to me because you needed to be safe. I wasn’t a safe person, and I know that. I wish more than anything that I could have been what you needed, but I wasn’t. I appreciate so much that you decided to call me. I just want to say again, I’m so sorry. I love you, and I’m proud of you for standing up for yourself and never wavering.”

At that moment, everything melted away. All the frustration, all the years of silence—it all faded. I wasn’t just an adult now. In that instant, I was a child again—the child who hadn’t heard her mother’s voice in 14 years.

But I was also the adult daughter who understood the trauma that had shaped my mother just as it had shaped me. The child and adult parts of me merged, and what came out of my mouth was a cry. I didn’t expect it.

I cried for the daughter who needed to hear those words. I cried for the daughter who knew her mother was sick and had such a short time to live. I cried for the adult daughter who understood that whatever relationship we had going forward would be limited to just a few months at most.

And I cried—for everything.

On October 6th, just one month and one day since I had first heard the news, I broke the news to my six nieces and nephews. It went well. There were tears, hugs, and a lot of emotional moments. But as I was packing up to leave, I surprised myself by telling my sister I wanted to stop by the hospital to see Mom. We had had a good conversation a few days earlier, and I just felt like I needed to see her.

She asked if I wanted her to come with me. YES! I said. So, we pulled up, and since my sister is 6 feet tall, it was easy to hide behind her as we walked into the room.

When my mom saw me, her face lit up. She had the biggest smile. I went straight to her and gave her the biggest hug.

I was still cautious, though. One of the boundaries I had made clear was that she wasn’t allowed to meet my kids. It would be too confusing for them. But I assured her that I would share photos, videos, and stories about them.

My mother, in her own way, was doing her best to respect the boundaries we had discussed. She said, “Whatever questions you have, I’ll answer them with no hesitation.”

From that moment on, I made the three-hour round trip to Lansing every Saturday or Sunday, to give my sister a break. As the weeks passed, it became clear that things were getting serious. My sister and I sat Mom down to talk to her about hospice care.

She had tried radiation one more time at the start of October, but the cancer was spreading at such a rapid pace that we knew it was time to consider other options. We discussed her entering hospice, which would give her the rest she desperately needed and the pain medication that could ease her suffering.

On October 24th, our mother entered hospice care. I was on the phone with her, my sister, and the hospice liaison as we went over all the details. Mom signed the DNR paperwork, and the hospice nurse was incredible—patient, kind, and thorough, answering every question we had. At that moment, we all knew what lay ahead. It was heartbreaking, but there was also a quiet resolve among us. We were prepared for what was to come.

The next few months flew by in a blur of moments I will always treasure. I had long, meaningful conversations with my mother—discussions I never thought we’d have. Those words, those exchanges, are just for me. But beyond the words, there was so much more. We watched our favorite musicals, shared laughter and tears, and I cooked meals she enjoyed. On the last day, I saw her, we had a deep conversation about therapy, the lessons she’d learned with her therapist, and the insights I had gained from mine. She commended me for choosing the right partner—my husband, who has been my rock and best friend for the past 20 years. I told her how I wished she had been shown love the way my husband had shown me, and she joked, “ I am glad you didn’t listen to me and dated him even though I told you not to”

She watched as I parented my children during FaceTime calls, respecting my boundaries in a way that felt both refreshing and healing. It was like catching a glimpse of what could have been, and for that, I was grateful. We sang karaoke and laughed as she shared stories from her childhood and early adulthood— some stories I made sure to record so I could always hold onto her voice and her memories. In those months, I never regretted the time we had lost. That time apart shaped me into who I am today. Instead, I chose to embrace the time we had left and soak in every moment.

Before I left her house that last Saturday, I gave her the biggest hug and finalized the dinner I planned to make and bring over. We had plans. She was in good spirits, and for the first time, I felt good—safe enough to let my walls down finally. I had so many questions that I was ready to ask her the next time we talked. That following Thursday, December 12, 2024, I was sitting in a salon chair getting my hair done. I planned to call my mom as soon as I finished. When my sister called, I thought nothing of it at first. But I will remember that moment for the rest of my life. Through tears, my sister said, “I’m so sorry. Mom died.”

I broke down.

You see, this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. We had a plan. This would be slow, with clear signs that death was imminent. She had cancer—we expected weight loss and an increasing need for pain meds. My sister and I would be by her side together when she took her last breath. But life doesn’t follow our plans. Instead, my sister was alone with her two kids. I was an hour and a half away, sitting in a salon as a snowstorm began to swirl outside. And my mother was gone.

My mother lived a complicated, messy, beautiful life. She wasn’t all good or all bad, as I once thought when I was a child. She was a whole person—full of emotions, trauma, stories, life, pain, humor, love, and everything else that makes us human. My mother—the woman I feared as a child and empathized with as an adult—was gone. My love for her has now turned into grief; the love I wasn’t able to express has now found a new path in my life. I know that I can make it without her because I have proven to myself I could. I have faith that we will see each other one day, the healed version of ourselves, and until that day comes. Rest well, Mom. I will continue to make you and myself proud.

I’ve shared my journey not to tell you what to do but to show you that it’s okay to wrestle with these difficult decisions. If you are contemplating no contact I encourage you to read my previous vlog on how I survived it here. I share some practice tips and tricks that helped me. Life doesn’t come with a roadmap, and healing isn’t linear. If you’ve found yourself at a crossroads, whether it’s about setting boundaries or choosing to reconnect, know that your choices are valid.

I invite you to reflect on your own story. Who or what has shaped you into the person you are today? Are there relationships in your life that need boundaries—or maybe a second chance? Whatever your decision, let it be one rooted in your truth and self-compassion.

If this story resonates with you, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Feel free to share your journey in the comments. Remember, you are not alone in navigating the complexities of life, love, and loss.

Let’s continue this conversation together.