James Clarkes fingers hammered the numbers on his mobile over and over, each time met with the same cold, mechanical voice: The number youve dialed is no longer in service. He hadnt called his mother in two years. His wife had forced a cruel choiceher or his mother. Hed chosen his wife.
The words number no longer in service echoed in his skull, a chill crawling up his spine under the thin white shirt he wore. Across the park where he sat, a gang of laughing teenagers drifted past, their carefree jokes a cruel soundtrack to his turmoil. James stared at them, feeling like a wild animal lost in a world he no longer understoodlife, laughter, joy, the simple ease of a sunny afternoon. A letter lay on his knees, the envelope addressed in bold block letters: James. A period. His mother always put a full stop at the end of everything. He had printed it himself; the envelope was still sealed, so his sister hadnt read it.
Inside, his mothers flawless, unadorned script filled two pagesno flourishes, just the precise hand of a diligent student. It began: Dearest James, my son. If youre reading this, Im no longer here James let out a guttural snort. He tried to hold back tears, but they slipped as he turned the pages.
He hadnt been thinking about his mother that day. Hed stepped out for a quick bite, craving a kebab with succulent, spiced meat, crisp cabbage, tomato, cucumber, and a generous drizzle of the vendors signature garlic sauce. As he stood before the revolving doors of the city mall, a figure seemed to step out onto the pavementhis mother, whom he hadnt seen in two years. A brown coat, dark wavy hair just past her shoulders, a tired gait of a woman worn down by work and household chores. She was the exact image of the mother that haunted his thoughts for the past three monthssometimes packing bags, sometimes a distant, sorrowful presence, never the protective rock he needed.
Three months earlier, a shivering, mangy creatureperhaps a ferret or a mousehad crawled into Jamess bedroom. It was bruised, trembling, pressed its warm, halfhairy body against him. Disgust fought pity, and pity won; he let the animal curl into a ball on his pillow, breathing shallowly. In the dark room later, he realized there were no rodents in his flat. The creature vanished, leaving only a warm indentation on the pillow. He swore it wasnt a dream. That night, his wife was asleep, and James fumbled through his phone, finding old photographs of him and his mothera happy family, no fights. He didnt know what to think.
Standing near the mall exit, he considered chasing the apparition of his mother, but a couriers voice cut through the chatter: Which floor is the electronics department? the guard asked.
Third floor, the guard replied briskly.
I work there, James interjected, turning away from the doors. Whos the delivery for? Maybe I can help.
The courier hesitated, then read the label on the package: To James Clarke.
Thats me, James said, extending his hand.
ID, please, the courier demanded.
James slipped his passport from his breast pocket, signed for the parcel, and stepped back onto the bustling streetcars honking, pedestrians chattering. He tore the box open; inside lay a note from his sister.
Mum passed on June12th. She asked me to give you this letter. Dont call me backI wont answer. Youve always been a traitor to me.
June12th. Today was September15th. Three whole months had slipped by without a word. A wave of nausea hit James, his stomach twisting; he nearly fainted, bracing against the graffititagged wall of the mall. His motherhis source of love, loyalty, protectionwas gone. He had once shouted to his wife, Im no longer your son! and now the words rang hollow.
He abandoned thoughts of kebabs and coffee. He could not face opening the letter in the bright square. He trudged back, sat on a bench, and finally broke the seal.
so Im gone. I have stagefour cancer. Today I felt an unexpected surge of strength and decided to write before my hand gave out. They say a sudden burst of energy means the end is near.
James, dont blame yourself. I called you countless times, hung up before the ring. Pride kept us both hostage. Even now, pride wont let me dial your number. Maybe you dont think of me, maybe you dont care, but youre still my son, and I cant stop loving you.
Im sorry I never got along with your wife. I was wrong in places, and she isnt easy either. Forgive the gaps in your upbringing; I raised you alone as best I could. Maybe I was a bad mother, but you turned away so easily. Youve punished me enough.
I wanted, in my last moments, to hear your voice
James choked back sobs, clenching his fists. He had never felt unloved. His mother always made time to listen, to comfort, to advise. She protected him and his sister like a wolf. In primary school, when two boys tried to bully him, she caught one on the street and held a pocketknife to his ear: Touch James again and Ill cut off your ear. She enrolled him in karate, teaching him to stand firm, never show weakness.
He pressed the phone to his ear, imagined the dial tone, and whispered in his mind: Im calling, Mum, please pick up. Im sorry for being weak. Let this be a joke.
Silence pressed down like a coffin lid, then the same mechanical voice: The number youve dialed is no longer in service.
No! James shouted, dialing again and again, each time the same sterile reply.
Desperate, he called his sister, but she barked, Go to hell, you idiot! and hung up.
He left work early, trudged home, and collapsed at his front door, shoes still on, jacket never removed. His wife, Emma, was on sick leave caring for their newborn. Whats happened so far early, James? she asked, covering her heart in a feigned gasp.
What James stared at her, words choking him. Mum died.
Emmas eyes widened, hand clutching at her chest, as if the shock could be felt physically. Did your sister tell you? Whens the funeral?
It was three months ago. Emma snapped, And you didnt tell me? Lovely family you have.
Shut up! James roared. Dont bring my family into this.
They argued, then decided to drive to their sisters flat in Leeds, where their mother had lived before moving in with Emmas family. James drove like a man possessed, anger flaring at every turnat himself, at Emma, at the relatives, especially at his sister, Lucy.
When they burst through the door, Lucy was trembling. Jamess voice cracked, You should have told me Mum was sick! How could you be such a
I owe you nothing! Lucy shouted back, eyes blazing. You should have spoken to her yourself! Youre a coward, a househusband, swapping your mother for this woman!
Emma tried to intervene, Dont
Dont you dare! James cut her off, This isnt about you. Its about you abandoning the woman who raised you!
Lucy sobbed, I never hid anything! It was your mothers choice, not mine!
The argument spiraled. Emma, eyes swollen, whispered, Remember why you said you werent her son anymore? James flinched, realizing the weight of his own words.
The tension crackled like static. Jamess sister finally gasped, She left us nothing! The flat is all we have!
Emma, trembling, said, Were renting. She promised to swap the flat for a mortgage, then backed out. She never cared for us.
James stared at the peeling wallpaper, the faded family photos, the coat hookseach a reminder of his mother and the pain hed caused.
Lucy shouted, You should have told us! You should have called!
James, voice hoarse, replied, I was scared. Pride kept me silent. Im sorry
A loud knock interrupted. Lucys husband, a hulking man, stormed in, Out! Get out of here before I call the police! Youre a pest, a snake!
He shoved both Lucy and Emma toward the door, slamming it shut. Emma fell to the floor, trembling, eyes wide with disbelief. James stood frozen, his breath shallow.
James, why did you stay silent? Why didnt you defend me? Emma cried, her voice breaking.
He could only stare at the cold tiles, feeling guilt crush him. The car ride home was silent, the countryside rushing past like a blur. James finally said, voice icy, What happened was partly my fault, but youre just as to blame. I cant live like this with you.
Emma replied, The final decision is yours. Dont dump all of this on me. Both you and Lucy are at fault. She should have told us!
The rest of the journey was a storm of accusations, and James stopped answering her calls. He vanished from the house; Emma never knew where he slept. He ceased replying to texts, his world narrowed to a single purpose: the memory of his mother.
Weeks passed. The divorce dragged on, his small son the only anchor. Eventually, James returned, a hollow shadow of the man he once was, his grief for his mother a gnawing ache. Emma felt no remorse for the late motherinlaw; she only pitied James, the cursed son who let his mother ruin everything.
Sometimes, James still saw his mother on the streets, a phantom drifting past him, unnoticed. He would turn, only to find an ordinary stranger. Once, on a commuter train, he thought he saw her staring out the window, but the crowd surged, and he stumbled, heart clenched like iron. It wasnt her.
Out of habit, he would dial his mothers number, hoping for a cracked tone, a faint ring. The machine would answer, The number youve dialed is no longer in service.
He shouted into the void, Im your son! Mum, hear me!
A recorded message played, Do not call this number again. Be grateful you have a wife.
