Friday, 7p.m. the moment I shut the flat door behind me, my phone buzzed in my bag. I was just stepping into my little London kitchen, the weeks fatigue already settled over me, and the screen displayed a single word: MUM.
I exhaled, let the call go through, and heard Margarets voice, sharp and tinged with reproach.
Hello, love
Hello, she replied, her tone cold. Youre alive, thank God. I was beginning to think youd forgotten about me altogether.
The familiar lump rose in my throat, the one that never fails to make me feel sick.
Mum, I just got home from work. Its been a hellish week, you have no idea
Everyone has work, Margaret cut in, not really listening. All of us are busy. You never call you never have time for me. I suppose Im no longer needed? The last time we spoke was Monday!
Monday! I blurted, irritation knotting tighter. That was four days ago! I cant be expected to ring you every two hours. I have a life of my own!
Of course you have a life, she snapped. And I have none. Im just here, waiting in the quiet for you to deign to spare five minutes.
And so it went: accusations traded back and forth, unspoken longing, bitter reproaches. I tried to defend myself, grew angry at her, then at my own anger. She wanted to hear that she mattered, that I loved her, yet the words she heard only pushed her further away. We hung up, both hurt, both feeling abandoned. I felt guilty for being tired, for snapping, for not giving Mum what she seemed to expect. She felt discarded and unnecessary.
This pattern repeated week after week. I began to dread the phone, each glance at its screen sending a pang of anxiety through me. I tried to call more often, but something was always offtoo late, not enough to talkand the conversation would end in another clash. The circle closed in on itself.
One particularly heavy evening, just as I was about to slam the handset down after hearing, You dont love me! I heard, for the first time, not fury but desperation in Mums voicea raw, childlike helplessness. Instead of snapping back, I inhaled slowly and said, almost childishly soft:
Mum, I can hear youre hurting. I hear you miss me. I miss you too.
Silence fell on the other end. Margaret seemed to be waiting for a tirade, an excuse, a scream, but not this simple, tender admission.
I I just dont know what to do. The days feel endless she stammered.
Lets try something different, I suggested cautiously. How about we agree that Ill call you every Sunday at seven. We can chat as long as you like then. On other days, well only call if something comes up or we need to. Does that sound alright?
Sunday at seven? she repeated, as if testing whether I was serious. The date felt far off, but suddenly it became a little beacon on the calendar. Alright, lets try.
The first Sunday I called precisely at seven. My voice was calm, not apologetic nor irritated. At first Margaret was tentative, then gradually she started describing how shed planted cucumbers on the balcony, how the seeds were sprouting, a new book shed started, a visit from a neighbour. She didnt blame; she shared. I talked about school, a funny incident in a lesson.
Weeks passed. I no longer feared the phone. Any day I could send Mum a snippet of something interesting. One afternoon, while grading my fiveyearolds whimsical compositions, I snapped a photo of the funniest sentence and messaged her: Mum, look at this little masterpiece they handed in!
Within a minute she replied, Oh, darling! What imagination! Those kids. followed by a laughing emoji.
Margaret sat in her armchair, looking at the childs scrawl on her screen. She hadnt been waiting for a call; shed just received a slice of my world, proof that she was remembered, not on a schedule but because I wanted to. She smiled, got up, and went to water her plants. There were still three days until the next Sunday call, yet the loneliness that had lingered for years began to recede.
More Sundays slipped by, and the calls became a ritual we both anticipated. Margaret even bought a small notebook to jot down tiny updatesten cucumbers harvested, read a fascinating article, looked through old photo albums with the neighbour, reminiscing about the 60s. I caught myself seeking out those small joys just so there would be something to share.
One Sunday morning I woke with a heavy head and a scratchy throat; I knew I was coming down with something. The thought of missing the call filled me with the old guilt, as if falling ill were a crime and postponing our chat a betrayal. This time, however, I simply dialed.
Mum, good morning, I croaked.
Is that you? Your voice sounds strange, Margaret warned instantly.
Yes, I think Im getting sick. My head feels like its splitting. Im calling now because Im afraid Ill lose my voice by evening or just collapse. I wanted to let you know so you dont worry.
On the other end there was no rebuke, only immediate concern.
Oh love, get straight to bed! Have a hot tea with a splash of raspberry? Soothe your throat?
I havent yet, I just woke up and realised Im awful, I admitted.
Drop everything and rest! No evening calls. Sleep, and call me when you feel better. Get well, sweetheart!
I slipped under the blankets with a surprising sense of relief. There was no argument, no shamejust pure motherly care. The brief, caring call meant far more than any of our formal Sunday chats. I lay there for about forty minutes, then forced myself up to brew tea, though I barely had the strength. As I was about to check my temperature, there was a knock at the door.
Who could that be? I wondered, pulling myself off the couch.
A courier stood there with a parcel.
MsEmily? Delivery, prepaid.
Inside were all the remedies: throat lozenges, a solid fever reducer, lemons, ginger, and a jar of raspberry jam.
I arranged the goodies on the coffee table, snapped a photo, and sent it to Mum with the caption: Mum, youre a lifesaver! I feel like Im in a spa now. Thank you so much!
She replied instantly, Thats to get you better fast. Now rest!
I poured a mug of tea, opened the jam, and drank a generous cup, smiling like a child being tended to. It felt wonderfully nostalgic and comforting.
Later that evening, my phone rang again. The screen read MUM. I was about to say everything was fine, when Margarets voice, excited but not anxious, burst through.
Darling, how are you feeling? My neighbour Anna stopped by and we chatted. Shes invited me to join her craft group they knit toys for childrens homes. I think Ill go tomorrow!
I listened, eyes wide. The mother who once measured her worth by the frequency of my calls was now the one sharing plans, not complaints. I responded genuinely:
Im feeling better, thank you. Im really happy for you.
Really? You dont mind?
What could I possibly mind? Toys are wonderful! Will you send me a photo of what you make?
Of course! she beamed. I wont keep you. Rest up and get well.
We said goodbye. I set the phone down beside the jam, the illness still dragging my limbs, but my heart was light. I realised that wed moved beyond a truce; we had become true friends, able to support each others joys and sorrows, even from a distance. That, I figured, was the best medicine of all.
