I kept dialing Mums number over and over, but every time the line gave me the same cold reply: This number is no longer in service. I hadnt called her in two years. My wife had put me in a cruel bind her or my mother and I chose her.
The number is no longer in service.
A knot tightened in my throat, and a cold sweat broke out beneath my white work shirt. I sat on a bench in the park and watched a group of laughing teenagers drift past, their chatter a blur. I felt like a stray animal, bewildered by the world around me life, laughter, joy, the carefree minutes that used to mean something. A letter lay on my lap. In bold block letters on the envelope was my name, James. A full stop. Mum always put a period at the end of everything. The letter was still sealed, so my sister hadnt read it. Inside, Mum had filled two pages with her neat, straightlined handwriting no flourishes, just the kind of script a diligent schoolchild would produce, each letter perfectly formed, no mistakes.
It began: Dear James, my son. If youre reading this, Im no longer here
I snorted at the words. I tried to hold back tears, but as I turned the pages I couldnt.
That day I wasnt thinking about Mum. I went out for lunch, craving a doner kebab. I could already taste the juicy, spiced meat wrapped in flatbread with cabbage, tomato, cucumber, all drenched in that unforgettable garlic sauce the kebab shop was famous for. As I stood in front of the revolving doors of the shopping centre, I thought I saw my mother emerging onto the street, a figure I hadnt laid eyes on in two years. She wore a brown coat, her dark hair slightly wavy, shoulders sloping, her gait heavy from years of work and domestic chores. She was exactly how shed appeared in my fleeting dreams over the past three months sometimes packing bags as if about to leave, sometimes I imagined myself as a child seeking her protection from imagined foes, only to find her distant and sorrowful. The thought that I might have to face the world alone without her solid reassurance made my chest tighten.
Three months earlier, a small creature somewhere between a ferret and a rat had crawled into my bed. It was bruised, trembling, its halfshaggy body pressed against me. I felt repulsed, yet pity won, and I let it curl into a ball on my pillow, right next to my head. It breathed weakly, exhausted. Then I realised we didnt keep rats or ferrets in the house; in the dark room the animal simply vanished, leaving only a warm indentation on the pillow. I swore it hadnt been a dream.
That night, while my wife Emily was already asleep, I opened my phone and, almost by instinct, found photos of Mum and me, smiling together as a family, no hint of the quarrel that now haunted me. I didnt know what to think.
I lingered near the mall exit, ready to chase the phantom of my mother, when a delivery driver asked the guard, Which floor are the appliances on? Ive got a delivery.
The third floor, the guard replied.
I work there, I interjected, turning away from the doors. Whos the delivery for? Maybe I can help.
Something told me to speak up. The driver, eyeing the parcel, read the label aloud, For James Sutherland.
Thats me, I said, extending my hand.
ID, please, the driver asked.
I patted my chest, withdrew my passport from my breast pocket, signed for the parcel and stepped outside. The street buzzed with chatter and traffic. I tore open the box and found a note from my sister Lucy.
Mum passed away on 12 June. She asked me to give you this letter. Dont call me I wont answer. Youve always been a traitor to me.
12 June. Today was 15 September. Three whole months had passed without anyone telling me.
My head throbbed, my stomach churned, and I felt faint, leaning against the dusty, redbrick wall of the mall. My mother the woman whod given me endless love, loyalty, and protection was gone. I had shouted at her once, Im no longer your son! and now the words came back to haunt me.
The thought of my kebab, my coffee, the hunger that had plagued me for hours faded. It was impossible to believe what I held in my hands. I walked back to the park, sat down, and finally opened the envelope.
so Im no longer here. I have cancer, stage four. Today I felt a sudden surge of strength and decided to write before my hand gave out. They say a sudden burst of energy is a sign that the end is near.
James, dont blame yourself. I called your number countless times and hung up before the ring. Were both prisoners of pride. Even now, as I write this, pride stops me from calling you. And you dont call. Perhaps you dont think of me, perhaps you dont care, but you are my son, my child, 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 me for the gaps in your upbringing; I raised you alone as best I could. I was probably a poor mother, seeing you turn away so easily. Youve punished me, son. Thats enough. Im sorry.
I would have liked to wait for a miracle before dying, to hear your voice
I clutched my fists and wept. I had never felt unloved or neglected. Mum always made time to talk, to comfort, to advise. She guarded my sister and me like a wolfess. When two schoolboys tried to bully me in fifth grade, she chased one down the street and, with a pocketknife pressed to his ear, warned, Touch James again and Ill cut off your ear. She signed me up for karate and taught me to fight, to stand firm, to never show weakness.
I pressed the phone to my ear, imagined her answering, and whispered mentally, Im calling you, Mum, please pick up. Im sorry Ive been weak. Let this letter be a joke!
Silence pressed in like a cold coffin, then the same words rang out again: This number is no longer in service.
No! I shouted, dialing again and again, each time the automated voice repeated, Number no longer in service.
In desperation I called Lucy, but she barked, Go to hell, you idiot! and slammed the phone down.
I asked for time off work and drove home. I stood in the doorway, shoes still on, coat still on, feeling the weight of everything crush me. Emily, on sick leave with our baby, sat at the kitchen table.
Whats wrong? Youre up early, she asked.
I stared at her, unable to find the words.
Mum died, I finally managed.
She clutched her chest in a rehearsed gesture, her eyes widening. Did Lucy tell you? Whens the funeral?
It happened three months ago, I said.
And you never knew? she snapped. Good family youve got! No wonder were
Shut up! I snapped back. Dont bring my family into this.
After a moment of uneasy calm we decided to drive to Lucys flat in Newcastle, where she now lived in the same house Mum had once occupied. I drove like a madman, anger turning against everyone myself, Emily, my relatives but especially against Lucy. We burst through her door, my voice shaking.
You should have told me Mum was sick! How could you keep that from me? I shouted.
What? I didnt owe you anything! Lucy retorted, eyes flashing. You should have spoken to her yourself! Youre a weakwilled man, trading your mother for this
Emily tried to intervene, but I cut her off. This is different! You should have said something!
Lucy scoffed, Whats it to you? Youve already declared youre not my brother anymore. Who cares about Mum?
Emily, tears glistening, whispered, Remember why you gave me that ultimatum?
You remember! Lucy snapped. Youre the one who chose her over us.
The argument spiraled. I recalled how Mum had refused a loan for our wedding, insisting we marry with what we had. Emilys mother had never helped. Emily was a quiet, withdrawn woman; Mum had tried to befriend her, but Emily kept shutting herself in her room. When our child was born, she barely left the house, refusing to help with the babys needs. She claimed postpartum depression, often arguing behind closed doors, kicking the infants crib, causing the baby to cry. Mum would sneak in to take the baby and soothe it, which only infuriated Emily. She would complain, Why do you keep meddling in our lives?
Mum eventually stopped asking for things, only taking the wilted flowers from the windowsill that Emily never watered. She promised to swap the flat for a mortgage that Emily could manage, but her resolve faded. One day a relative visited and said, Your flat is a mess, youre all living in squalor.
Mum, fed up, replied, Im alone here. Emily doesnt clean, doesnt cook. She has a baby, shes useless. I used to manage everything on my own, but now
Emily burst from her room, shouting at Mum with a torrent of curses, the worst motherinlaw anyone could imagine. The house fell into chaos. I retreated, my head throbbing, and Emily slapped my cheek hard.
Demand that Mum swaps the flat! She promised! I cant live here any longer! she demanded.
Mum, offended, finally decided she would not exchange the flat, declaring Emily unworthy. She demanded they move out. Emily was forced to choose: stay with me or stay with my mother.
You decide, James. Who do you want to be with? Me or all of them? Your sisters a snake, turning everyone against me.
I felt the sting of betrayal. My own mother had cast me out! So I told her, Im no longer your son. Ill block your number dont try to call.
I kept my word partially; I stopped speaking to her, but eventually I unblocked her number, hoping she might call. Pride held me back from being the first to mend things. Now I stood before Lucy, fully aware that I was at fault for everything, surrounded by the walls of that miserable flat the pictures, the lamps, the coat hooks, the furniture all reminders of Mum and the hurt Id caused.
Lucy shouted, Leave! I dont want to talk to you. Call the police if you must.
Not a chance, Emily replied, Half the flat belongs to me!
My mother left it to me, Lucy retorted, I already have the inheritance.
Emily turned pale with rage. I dont need the flat, I said, Natasha, I just want to speak calmly
Its not that simple, Emily snapped, Were still renting, remember?
I went pale, but before I could answer, Lucys brother, who had stayed out of family fights until now, intervened.
Get out. Leave this place. Take your nasty he shouted, shielding Emily with a barrage of insults, so the spirit of that snake is gone. She ruined a woman before her time and now wants more!
He shoved both of us out, slammed the door, and left Emily trembling with humiliation. I stood frozen.
James, why were you silent? Why didnt you stand up for me? Did you hear how he called me?
I said nothing, sank onto the dirty stairs and wept. Emily was lost for words. Later, on the drive home, I said coldly, What happened is partly your fault. Im guilty too, but youre the worst of all. How can I live with you after this?
It was your decision, not mine, Emily replied. Both of us are to blame: you and your sister. She should have told us! She had to!
The end of it all, I muttered, is that Im still haunted by seeing Mum on the street, a phantom passing by without noticing me. Yesterday I thought I saw her on a commuter train, staring out the window. A crowd surged in, I squeezed through, my heart a steel bar, almost stepping on her foot but it was a stranger, not Mum.
Sometimes, out of habit, I still dial the old number, hoping for a faint buzz, a single ring from the darkness, but all I get is the same automated message.
The number is no longer in service, it says, as if on cue.
Im your son! Mum, hear me! I shout into the void.
Dont call this number again. Enjoy the fact you still have a wife.
