The phone buzzed in Emma Clarkes handbag the instant she shut the flats front door behind her. The clock read seven oclock on a Friday evening. The tired anticipation of the weekend vanished in an instant, replaced by a heavy, familiar feeling. The screen displayed:MUM.
Emma exhaled and answered.
Hello, Mum.
Mum, hello, Margarets voice came out cold and reproachful. Youre alive, thank God. I was beginning to think youd forgotten all about me.
The familiar lump in Emmas throat rose again, nauseatingly familiar.
Mum, Ive just left work. Its been a nightmare of a week, you have no idea
Everyone has work, Margaret snapped, not really listening. Everyones busy. You never ever call me you never have time for me. Do you even need me any longer? The last time we spoke was Monday!
Monday! Emma exploded, feeling irritation knotting her throat. That was four days ago! I cant be calling you every two hours. I have a life of my own!
Sure, a life of your own, Margaret retorted sharply. And I have none. I sit here alone in the silence, waiting for my daughter to deign to give me five minutes.
The conversation slid down the wellworn track of mutual grievances, unspoken longing and bitter accusations. Emma tried to explain, grew angry at her mother, then angry at herself for feeling that anger. Margaret wanted to hear one thingthat she was loved and matteredyet the words she uttered only pushed Emma further away. They hung up, both upset and unhappy. Emma felt guilty for being tired, for snapping, for not giving her mother what she expected. Margaret felt abandoned and useless.
The pattern repeated week after week. Emma began to dread seeing the phone screen; each glance sparked anxiety. She forced herself to call more often, but something always felt offyou called too late, we didnt talk enoughand the call ended in another argument. The circle closed on itself.
A turning point came on one of those grim evenings. Emma, about to slam the handset after another You dont love me! heard a note of desperation, not anger, in her mothers voice. A childlike helplessness. Instead of snapping back, Emma breathed out and said softly, almost childishly:
Mum, I can hear youre hurting. I hear you miss me. I miss you too.
Silence fell on the other side of the line. Margaret had been waiting for an excuse, a tirade, a quietnone of those, just a simple, gentle acknowledgement.
I I just dont know what to do. The days feel endless Margaret stammered.
Lets try something different, Emma suggested 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 call only if something comes up or we need to, and well save the venting for Sunday. You tell me all your news, Ill tell you mine. Deal?
Sunday at seven? Margaret repeated, as if testing a mirage. The next Sunday seemed far away, but suddenly it became a point on the calendar, a beacon. All right, well do that.
The first Sunday Emma called precisely at seven. Her tone was calm, not apologetic or irritated. Margaret, at first tentative, grew steadier as she talked about the cucumber seedlings shed planted on the balcony, the new book she was reading, a visit from a neighbour. She wasnt complaining; she was sharing. Emma spoke about school, a funny incident in class.
Weeks passed. Emma no longer feared the phone. She could share anything with her mum any day. One afternoon, while checking the messy essays of her fiveyearold pupils, Emma snapped a photo of the funniest line and texted it to Margaret: Mum, look at this brilliant sentence they gave me!
A minute later came the reply: Oh, darling! What imagination! Those kids! Followed by a laughing emoji.
Margaret sat in her armchair, studying the childs handwriting on the screen. She hadnt been waiting for a call; shed received a slice of her daughters world, proof that she was remembered. Not on a schedule, but simply because Emma wanted to. She smiled and went to water her plants. Three days remained until the next Sunday call, yet the loneliness receded. Everything had changed.
After a few more weeks the Sunday calls became a ritual both looked forward to. Margaret even kept a small notebook to jot down tiny updates so nothing slipped her mind: Ten cucumbers harvested, Read an interesting article, Neighbour and I looked through old photo albums, reminisced about youth. She caught herself seeking out these small joys deliberately, just to have something to share.
Emma noticed the shift. Her mothers voice carried less of that heavy yearning and more genuine interest. One Sunday morning Emma woke with a pounding head and the sense that she was falling ill. Her throat was raw, her whole body ached. She feared that by evening she would be even worse and would lack the strength for the usual long chat.
Before, this would have sparked guilt: being sick would feel like a crime, postponing the call a unforgivable sin. Now she simply dialed.
Mum, good morning, she croaked.
Emma? Your voice sounds strange, Margaret said instantly, alarmed.
I think Im coming down with something. My head feels like its splitting. Im calling because Im afraid Ill lose my voice by evening or just collapse. I wanted to let you know so youre not worried.
On the other end there was no reproach, only immediate concern.
Oh love, get into bed right now! Have you got a hot raspberry tea? Rinsed your throat?
No, I just woke up and realised Im miserable, Emma admitted.
Drop everything and look after yourself! Margaret commanded with motherly firmness. No phone calls this evening. Rest. Call me when you feel better. Get well soon!
Emma slipped under the duvet with a warm sense of relief. There was no argument, no shamejust care. Her mother didnt demand entertainment from a sick daughter; she simply wanted her wellbeing. That brief, caring call meant far more to both of them than any dozen formal Sunday chats. Emma lingered under the blankets for about forty minutes.
She forced herself up to brew a tea, though her strength barely held. As she reached for a thermometer, the doorbell rang.
Who could that be? she wondered, reluctantly pulling herself from the sofa.
A courier stood on the doorstep with a parcel.
Emma? Delivery for you. Paid.
Inside the box were everything for a quick recovery: throat lozenges, a good fever reducer, lemons, ginger, and a jar of raspberry jam.
Emma arranged the goodies on the coffee table, snapped a picture and sent it to her mum with the caption: Mum, youre a lifesaver! Im practically at a spa now. Thank you ever so much!
Moms reply arrived instantly: Thats to help you get better fast. Now lie down!
Emma poured the tea, opened the jam, and drank a generous cup, smiling like a little girl being pampered. It felt wonderfully nostalgic.
That evening the phone rang again. The screen read MUM. Emma was about to say she was fine and feeling much better, but instead heard an excited, untroubled voice.
Sweetheart, how are you feeling? My neighbour, Anne, stopped by and we chatted. Shes invited me to join her craft club they knit toys for childrens homes. I think Ill go tomorrow!
Emmas eyes widened. Her mother, Margaret, who not long ago measured her worth by the number of calls receiving from her daughter, was now calling to share her own plans, not to complain but to rejoice.
Im feeling decent, Mum, and Im thrilled for you, Emma said sincerely.
Really? You dont mind? Margarets voice trembled with a hint of lingering insecurity, as if still waiting for a reproach.
Whats there to mind? Im all for it! Toys are wonderful! Will you send me a picture of what you make?
Absolutely! Margaret beamed. Alright, I wont keep you, get some rest. Get well soon!
They said goodbye. Emma placed the phone on the bedside table next to the jam. The illness still weighed her down, but her spirit was light and calm. She realised that something far richer than a truce had happened. She and her mother had finally learned to be each others support rather than each others burdentrue friends who could celebrate each others joys even when miles apart. That, she understood, was the best medicine of all.
The lesson is simple: when we move from expectation and accusation to genuine listening and shared moments, relationships heal, and both heart and mind grow stronger.
