Dear Diary,
Tonight I find myself staring at the phone, the same number Ive tried to dial over and over again. Each time I hear the same cold, automatic message: The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Its been two long years since I last called Mum, and now the line is dead. My wife, Claire, gave me an impossible choice her or my mother. I chose Claire, thinking I was protecting our little family.
The words no longer in service settled over me like a damp blanket. A cold sweat broke out under my shirt as I sat on a bench in the little park behind the Westfield shopping centre. A group of teenagers laughed and shouted as they passed, their carefree noise echoing the life I feel detached from. I watched them, feeling like a stray animal that has lost its sense of place. The letter lay on my laps, the envelope addressed in block capitals simply: Harry. A period after my name, as if Mum always finished her sentences with a full stop. She had written the whole thing herself, her neat, precise handwriting no flourishes, just each letter formed cleanly, the way a topclass student would write in an exam.
The letter began, Dear Harry, my son. If youre reading this, Im no longer here. I choked on the words, trying to hold back tears that slipped down my cheeks as I continued reading.
I hadnt thought about Mum all day. Id gone out for a quick lunch, hoping for a greasy doner kebab, the kind smothered in that tangy garlic sauce you get at the stall by the food court. As I approached the revolving doors, I thought I saw someone step out onto the pavement a woman in a brown coat, dark hair just brushing her shoulders, a weary gait that spoke of endless chores. It was my mother, the one I hadnt seen in two years, the one who haunted my thoughts for the past three months in fleeting glimpses and halfremembered dreams. I recalled how, three months ago, a battered little ferret or perhaps a rat had crawled into my bed. It was trembling, its fur matted, and despite my revulsion I let it curl up on my pillow. In the dark room I later realized there were no rodents in the house, and the animal vanished, leaving only a warm imprint on the pillow.
Later that night, while Claire slept, I found old photographs of Mum, of a time when we were still a family, untroubled. The images confused me more than they comforted.
I lingered near the exit of Westfield, hoping to catch up to the woman I thought was my mother, when a courier asked the security guard where the domestic appliances were to be delivered. Third floor, the guard replied. I interjected, I work there. Whos the delivery for?
The courier frowned at the label on the parcel: To H. Thompson. I handed over my passport, signed for the package, and stepped outside. The street buzzed with the usual London chatter, the rumble of buses, the hiss of passing cars. I tore open the parcel and found a note from my sister Emily:
Mum passed away on 12 June. She asked me to give you this letter. Dont call me I wont answer. Youll always be a traitor to me.
June 12. Today is 15 September. She kept this from me for three whole months.
My stomach twisted, nausea surged, and I almost fainted, bracing myself against the dusty brick wall of the centre. Mum the woman who gave me love, loyalty, and protection was gone. The words that had driven a wedge between us resurfaced: Im no longer your son! The thought of a kebab and a latte vanished from my mind; I couldnt even think of opening the letter here.
I walked back to the park, sat on the same bench, and finally forced the envelope open. The letter read:
so Im no longer here. I have cancer, stage four. Today I felt a sudden surge of strength and decided to write before I lost the ability to hold a pen. They say a sudden burst of energy can be a sign the end is near.
Harry, dont blame yourself. I called you countless times, dropping the call before the ring. Pride held us both hostage. Even now, as I write, pride keeps me from ringing you. Maybe you dont think of me at all, maybe you dont care, but you are still my son and I cannot stop loving you.
Im sorry I never got along with Claire; I was wrong in many ways, but she isnt easy either. Forgive me for the gaps in your upbringing I raised you alone as best I could. Perhaps I was a bad mother, given how quickly you turned away. Youve punished me enough. Im sorry.
I hoped, even in these last moments, for a miracle to hear your voice one more time
Tears streamed down my face, my fist clenching my mouth shut. I never felt unloved. Mum always made time to listen, to comfort, to advise. She defended me fiercely I remember once, in Year Five, when two classmates tried to bully me, she caught one on the street and pressed a pocketknife to his ear, warning, Touch my boy again and youll lose an ear. She pushed me into karate, teaching me to stand firm, to show no weakness.
I pressed the phone to my ear, imagined her voice, and whispered mentally, Im calling you, Mum, please answer. Im sorry for being weak. Let this be a joke, a cruel one. The silence on the line was as heavy as a coffin. Then, again, the same recorded message.
Desperation drove me to call Emily, but she screamed, Go to hell, you idiot! and slammed the phone down. I left work early, drove home, stood in the doorway like a statue, shoes still on, coat still on. Claire, on sick leave with our baby, looked up, Whats happened, Harry?
I tried to speak, but the words stuck. Mum died, I managed.
She clutched at her chest, a performative gasp that felt wrong. Did your sister tell you? Whens the funeral?
Three months ago, I said, bitter.
And they didnt tell you? she snapped. What a lovely family we are.
Shut up! I shouted, the anger spilling over. Dont speak about my family.
After a tense pause we agreed to drive to Emilys flat in Manchester, where she now lived. The car sped down the M6, my mind a torrent of blame at myself, at Claire, at my relatives, but most of all at Emily. We barged into the flat that once housed Mum; now Emily lived there, her eyes flashing with hostility.
You should have told me! You should have said Mum was ill! I hissed.
I owe you nothing! she retorted, tears flashing. You should have spoken to her yourself! Youre a spineless wimp who chose a wife over his own mother!
Claire tried to intervene, Lets just talk
No! Emily shouted, Youre both parasites! Mum left the flat to me, not to you! She pointed a finger at Claire, Youre nothing but a lazy, selfish mother.
I stood, pale, as Emilys brother, a hulking man who had stayed out of the dispute, stepped forward. Enough, he growled, Get out. Both of you are not welcome here.
I felt the cold sting of the hallway as they were ushered out, the door slamming behind us. Claires eyes filled with tears; she whispered, Why didnt you stand up for me?
I didnt answer. I sank onto the grimy stairs, sobbing. The next morning, in the car on the way home, I told Claire, A large part of this is my fault, but youre the one who bears the greatest burden now. How can we live together after this?
She replied, The decision is yours, but dont put all the blame on me. Both you and Emily are at fault. She should have told us!
Our argument lasted for miles. Eventually, I stopped answering her calls. I disappeared from the house, sleeping elsewhere, refusing to speak to anyone. Months passed, and the weight of my grief kept me from returning. The only thing that kept me tethered was the baby, now a sleepy infant in Claires arms.
Sometimes, walking down the high street, I think I see Mum, just a fleeting silhouette, a phantom that slips away as I turn. Yesterday, on a commuter train, a woman sat looking out the window; I thought she was her, but it was only a stranger.
Out of habit, I still dial the old number, hoping a faint ring will break the silence, that a voice will answer. All I hear is the same recorded line: The number you have dialed is no longer in service. I whisper to the empty line, Im your son, Mum, hear me!
And the automated voice replies, Please stop calling this number. Be glad you have Claire.
I close my eyes, feeling the ache of what Ive lost and the heaviness of the choices that led me here.
