The phone buzzes in Emily Clarkes bag the moment she steps inside her flat and shuts the door. The clock reads seven oclock on a Friday evening. The tired anticipation of the weekend vanishes in an instant, replaced by a familiar, heavy feeling. On the screen flashes: MUM.
Emily sighs and answers.
Hey, Mum.
Hey, Margaret Clarkes voice comes out cold and reproachful. Alive, thank God. I was beginning to think youd completely forgotten about me.
The conversation starts, a lump in the throat that feels nauseatingly familiar.
Mum, I just got off work. Its been an awful week, you cant imagine.
Everyone has work, Margaret replies, not really listening. Everyones busy. You never call me You never have time for me. I suppose Im not needed any more? The last time we spoke was Monday!
Monday! Emily erupts, feeling irritation rise like a knot in her throat. That was four days ago, Mum! I cant be calling you every two hours! I have a life of my own!
Of course, your life, Margaret snaps. And I have none. I sit here alone in the silence, waiting for you to deign to spare five minutes.
The dialogue slides down a wellworn track: mutual grievances, unspoken longing, bitter accusations. Emily tries to justify herself, gets angry at her mum, then angry at herself for feeling that anger. Margaret wants to hear one thingthat she is loved and importantyet she says words that push her further away. They hang up, both upset and unhappy. Emily feels guilty for being tired, for snapping, for not giving her mum what she expects. Margaret feels abandoned and useless.
The pattern repeats week after week. Emily begins to dread the phone; every glance at the screen spikes her anxiety. She tries to call more often, but something always feels offI called too late, We didnt talk enoughand the call ends in a spat. The circle closes.
A turning point arrives on one of those heavy evenings. Emily, ready to slam the receiver after another You dont love me!, suddenly hears, not anger, but desperation in her mums voicea raw, childlike helplessness. Instead of snapping back, Emily exhales and says gently, almost childlike:
Mum, I hear youre hurting. I hear you miss me. I miss you too.
Silence erupts on the other end. Margaret expects an excuse, a scream, a silence, but not this simple, soft confession.
I I just dont know what to do, she stammers. Days feel endless
Lets try something different, Emily suggests cautiously. How about we agree that Ill call you every Sunday at seven. We can talk as long as you like. On other days well ring only if something comes up or you need something. Sundays become our catchup. You tell me all your news, Ill tell you mine. Deal?
Sundays at seven? Margaret repeats, as if checking she isnt dreaming. The next Sunday feels far off, but now its a point on the calendar, a beacon. Alright, she says.
The first Sunday Emily rings exactly at seven. Her tone is calm, not apologetic or irritated. Margaret starts tentatively, then gradually opens up about the cucumber vines shes grown on the balcony, the seedlings sprouting, a new book, a visit from a neighbour. She isnt accusing; shes sharing. Emily talks about school, a funny incident in class.
Weeks pass. Emily no longer fears the phone. She can share anything with her mum any day. While checking her fiveyearolds homework, she snaps a picture of the funniest sentence and texts Margaret: Mum, look at this masterpiece they handed in!
A minute later Margaret replies, Oh love, what imagination! Those kids! followed by a laughing emoji.
Margaret sits in her armchair, staring at the childs scrawl on her screen. She didnt wait for a call; she received a slice of her daughters world, proof that she is remembered. Not on a schedule, just because she wanted to. She smiles and goes to water her plants. There are still three days until the next Sunday call, but the loneliness recedes. Everything has changed.
More weeks slide by. Sunday calls become a ritual both look forward to. Margaret even keeps a small notebook where she jots down tiny updatesten cucumbers harvested, read an interesting article, flipped through old photo albums with the neighbour, reminiscing about youth. She finds herself seeking those little joys deliberately, just so theres something to tell.
Emily notices the shift. Her mums voice carries less of that heavy yearning, more curiosity. One Sunday morning Emily wakes with a pounding head and a feeling that shes coming down with something. Her throat is sore, her whole body aches. She thinks the evening will only get worse and that she wont have the strength for a long Sunday chat.
Before, she would have felt a surge of guiltbeing ill would seem like a crime, postponing the call an unforgivable fault. Now she simply dials.
Morning, Mum, she croaks.
Emily? Your voice sounds off, Margaret says instantly alert.
I think Im getting sick. My head feels like its splitting. Im calling because Im afraid Ill lose my voice by the evening or just crash into bed. I wanted to let you know so you dont worry.
On the other end there is no reproach, only instant concern.
Oh dear! Go straight to bed! Have you got a hot raspberry tea? Gargled anything?
No, I just got up and realized I feel terrible, Emily admits.
Stop what youre doing and get some rest! No calls tonight. Sleep. Call me when you feel better. Get well soon!
Emily crawls under the blanket with a warm sense of relief. Theres no fighting, no shamejust care. Her mum doesnt demand entertainment from a sick daughter; she just wants her wellbeing. That brief, caring call means more to both of them than a dozen formal Sunday chats. She lies there for about forty minutes.
She forces herself to get up and make tea, though shes still weak. As she reaches for the thermometer, the doorbell rings.
Who could that be? she wonders, pulling herself off the sofa.
A courier stands at the door with a parcel.
Emily Clarke? Delivery for you. Paid.
Inside the box are everything for recovery: throat lozenges, a good fever reducer, lemons, ginger and a jar of raspberry jam.
Emily spreads the treasures on the coffee table, snaps a photo and texts her mum, Mum, youre a lifesaver! I feel like Im in a spa now. Thank you so much!
A second later Margaret replies, Thats to help you get better fast. Now lie down!
Emily pours herself a cup of tea, opens the jam jar. She drinks the big mug with pleasure and settles back to be ill with a silly grin on her face. She feels like a little girl being looked after. Its oddly comforting, almost tearsweet.
Later that evening Emilys phone rings again. The screen reads MUM. Shes about to say shes fine and feeling much better when she hears a bright, untroubled voice.
Emily, how are you feeling? My neighbour, Anne, dropped by and we chatted. Shes invited me to join her hobby clubthey knit toys for childrens homes. I think Ill go tomorrow!
Emilys eyes widen. Her mum, Margaret, who not long ago measured her worth solely by Emilys phone calls, is now calling to share her own plans, not to complain but to celebrate.
Im feeling decent, Mum, and Im really pleased for you, Emily says earnestly.
Yes? You dont mind? Margarets voice carries a hint of uncertainty, as if still waiting for a rebuke.
Whats the mind? Im all for it! Toys sound wonderful! Will you send a photo of what you make?
Absolutely! her mum answers happily. Alright, I wont keep you. Rest up. Get better!
They say goodbye. Emily places the phone on the bedside table beside the raspberry jam. The illness still drags her down, but her heart feels light and calm. She realises something bigger than a truce has happened. She and her mum have finally stopped being burdens or sources of guilt for each other and have become true friends who can support and rejoice for one another, even from a distance. That turns out to be the best medicine of all.
