It took me almost a week to finish it.
The more I tried, the more I wanted to cry. No matter how hard I tried, I could not imagine the world without my Mum.
It's a story I heard and got inspired.
"Hello, Mum" is not an easy story. Not to write, not to read, and certainly not to live.
Some parts of this novel are written in the first person — raw, immediate, like a wound still bleeding. Others step back into the third person, almost like watching someone grieve from across a hallway.
That wasn't a mistake.
I wanted the reader to feel what grief actually does:
Sometimes it pulls you deep into yourself — every sound louder, every heartbeat unbearable.
Other times, it pushes you so far out of your own skin that you watch your life like a stranger would, detached, silent, dissociating.
I wanted to write this book not just as a story, but as a reminder.
We live fast. We chase things. We measure success in promotions, countries, deadlines, likes.
But we forget — the most important moments are terrifyingly fragile and heartbreakingly small.
A hand on your forehead when you're sick.
The way your mother hums while folding laundry.
Laughing in a kitchen.
Choosing a cake.
Arguing over lipstick shades.
All of it matters more than we know.
And then one day, the person who gave you that becomes a photo in a frame.
And you would give up everything — everything — for just five more minutes in that kitchen.
So if you take anything from this story, let it be this:
Don't wait.
Call your mum.
Call your dad.
Text your sibling.
Thank you for walking through this story with me.
If it reminded you of someone you love — tell them.
Before the hello turns into goodbye.
Дякую, Roge Park from Ukraine.