15 September
Ive been trying to dial Mums number over and over, but each time the line clicks coldly, Number no longer in service. Its been two years since I last called. Alice gave me an ultimatum her or my mother. I chose her.
The words Number no longer in service sit in my head like a stone. Sweat drips under the stiff white shirt I wear at work. Across the park, a group of laughing teenagers wander past. I stare at them, feeling like a stranger in my own life, unsure why Im here, why anything matters laughter, joy, the careless moments. A letter lies on my knees. In bold block letters on the envelope reads: John. A full stop. Mum always put a period at the end of everything. The paper is still sealed, so Lucy hasnt read it yet. Mums handwriting is immaculate, each letter spaced perfectly, as if she were a model student, no flourishes, no extravagance. The letter begins: Dear John, my son. If youre reading this, Im gone
I choked on the words. I tried to hold back the tears, but they slipped as I kept reading.
That afternoon I went out for a quick bite of a doner kebab, craving the juicy sliced meat wrapped in warm flatbread, topped with cabbage, tomato, cucumber and a generous swirl of garlic mayo the shops signature. As I stood by the revolving doors of the shopping centre, I thought I saw someone stepping out onto the street. It was my mother the same brown coat, dark wavy hair just brushing her shoulders, a weary gait of a woman tired from work and home. She had haunted my thoughts for the past three months, appearing now and then, sometimes packing bags as if she were about to leave, other times I imagined myself as a child seeking her protection, only to find her distant and sad, simply sitting there a picture that never fit her. It terrified me to think of a world without her sure shield.
Three months ago, a small creature I cant tell if it was a ferret or a rat staggered into my bedroom. It was bruised, trembling against me with a halfshaved, warm body. Though I found it repulsive, pity won over disgust. I let it curl up on the pillow right next to my head and breathe its shallow breaths. Then I realised there were no rats or ferrets in the house, and when I thought of that in the darkness, the animal vanished, leaving only a warm indentation on the pillow. I swore it hadnt been a dream.
That night, while Alice slept, I grabbed my phone and found old photos of Mum and me, when we were still a family, no arguments. I didnt know what to think.
I lingered near the exit of the centre, hoping to catch up with the figure Id mistaken for Mum, when a courier asked the guard, Which floor is the appliances department?
The third, the guard replied.
I work there, I interjected, glancing away from the doors, whos the delivery for? Maybe its for me?
The courier read the label on the parcel hesitantly.
John S. Murphy.
Thats me, I said, extending my hand.
ID, please, he asked. I patted my chest, pulled out my passport from the inner jacket pocket, signed for the package and stepped outside.
The street buzzed with chatter and traffic. I ripped open the parcel inside was a note from Lucy.
Mum died on 12 June. She asked me to give you this letter. Dont call me I wont answer. Youre a traitor to me.
12 June. Today is 15 September. Three whole months had passed with no word.
My head throbbed, my stomach churned, and I nearly fainted, but I pressed my back against the dusty, redbrick wall of the centre. Mum was gone the woman whod given me love, loyalty, protection, whod once shouted at a bully with a pocketknife, Touch John again and Ill cut off your ear. Shed pushed me into karate, teaching me to stand my ground, to hide no weakness.
I could barely think of the kebab, the cappuccino, the hunger that had gnawed at me for the last two hours. I couldnt bring myself to open the letter there. I shuffled back to the park, sat on a bench, and finally tore the envelope.
so Im gone. I have cancer, stage four. Today I felt an unexpected surge of strength and decided to write before my hand fails. They say such a sudden burst often means the end is near.
John, dont blame yourself. How many times have I dialed your number, only to be cut off before the ring? Pride has held us both hostage. Even now, as I write, pride stops me from calling you. You dont call either. Maybe you dont think of me, maybe you dont care, but youre my son, and I cant stop loving you.
Im sorry I never got on with Alice; I was wrong in some places, but shes no easy person either. Forgive me for the gaps in your upbringing I raised you alone as best I could. Perhaps I was a bad mother, because you turned away so easily. Youve punished me enough, son.
I hoped, even in death, to hear your voice one more time.
Tears streamed down, my mouth clamped shut. I never saw myself as unloved. Mum always found time to talk, to comfort, to listen, to advise. She defended us like a wolf. When some classmates tried to bully me in Year Five, she grabbed a knife and warned them, Touch John again and youll lose an ear. She enrolled me in karate, teaching me to fight, to stand firm, to show strength, not weakness.
I pressed the phone to my ear, imagined her answering, pleading, Im sorry, Im a fool. The silence on the other end was as heavy as a coffin. Then the dreaded voice: Number no longer in service. I shouted, No! No! I cant believe it! and dialed again and again, each time hearing the same cold message.
In frustration I called Lucy, but she screamed, Go to hell, you idiot! and hung up.
I called in sick from work and trudged home. I stood at the doorway like a statue, coat and shoes still on, exhausted. Alice, on maternity leave with the baby, looked at me.
Whats happened, John? she asked, feigning concern.
Mum died.
She clutched her chest, an act that felt false to me. Did Lucy call? Whens the funeral?
It happened three months ago.
And they didnt tell you? she sneered. What a perfect family!
Shut up! I snapped. Dont bring my family into this.
We decided to drive to the town where Lucy lives a provincial city a few hours away. I drove like a man possessed, anger boiling over everything: myself, Alice, the relatives, but especially Lucy. We burst into the flat she now occupied, the one Mum once lived in. Lucys eyes flashed with fury.
You should have told me Mum was ill! How could you be such a
I should? I was the one who should have spoken to her! Youre the one who left me in the dark!
Alice tried to intervene, Dont
Stay out of this! I shouted, turning back to Lucy. You owe me an explanation!
Its not my fault! You chose your wife over your mother!
What about the flat? Mum promised it to me. Alice says its hers now.
The argument spiraled, accusations flying. I realised I was partly at fault pride, silence, the choices Id made. The flat, the money, the memories on the walls, the pictures, the coat hooks, all reminded me of Mum and the hurt Id caused her.
Lucy finally shouted, You should have told us! You should have spoken to her!
I was too proud to call, I admitted, voice breaking. I let my pride keep us apart.
Later, in the car heading home, I told Alice bluntly, A great part of this mess is my own doing, but you bear a share too. How can we live together after this?
She replied, The decision is yours, John. Dont shift the blame all onto me.
The next weeks were a blur of cold silences. I stopped coming home. I slept elsewhere, my phone went unanswered. A month passed. The only things pulling me back were the house we shared and our little son, Tom. I eventually returned, but I was distant, colder, my grief for Mum a heavy cloak over everything.
Sometimes I still think I see Mum on the street, a phantom passing by, never noticing me. Yesterday I almost caught a glimpse of her on the train, her eyes staring out the window. A crowd swarmed the carriage, I slipped between them, my heart a clenched iron. I almost knocked into her, but it was another woman.
Out of habit I still dial the old number, hoping for even a single buzz, a whisper from the beyond. The line replies, as always, Number no longer in service.
I am your son! Mum, hear me!
A recorded voice finally says, Do not call this number again. Be grateful you still have your wife.
Lesson learned: Pride can silence the most important voices in our lives. If I had set aside my stubbornness sooner, perhaps Mums last words would have found their way to me, and the wounds between my family might have healed. I must remember to listen, to call, and to keep the lines open before its too late.
