14 September
I have been dialing Mums number over and over, but each time the line coldly replies, Number no longer in service. Its been two years since I last called. My wife gave me an ultimatum her or my mother. I chose her.
The words Number no longer in service still echo in my head, and a cold sweat gathers under my white work shirt. I sit on a bench in the small park, watching a gaggle of laughing teenagers drift past. I feel like a stray animal, bewildered by everything life, laughter, carefree moments The letter lies on my knees. In bold block letters on the envelope reads simply: James. A full stop. Mum always put a period at the end of everything. I have already printed it out. The envelope was still sealed, so Im sure Emily never read it. Mum filled two pages with her immaculate, nofrills handwriting each letter perfectly formed, no flourish, just the way a topclass student would write. The letter begins: Dear James, my son. If youre reading this, Im no longer here
I choke on the words. I try to hold back tears, but the more I read, the harder it becomes.
That day I wasnt thinking about Mum at all. I stepped out for lunch, craving a hot doner kebab juicy spiced meat wrapped with lettuce, tomato, cucumber, and drenched in Mums famous garlic sauce. As I reach the revolving doors of the shopping centre, I swear I see Mum emerge onto the street. Shes wearing a brown coat, dark wavy hair just brushing her shoulders, a weary gait of a woman exhausted by work and household chores. She looks exactly like the mother Ive imagined for the past three months, appearing now and then in dreams where she packs suitcases to leave, or where I, a small boy, beg her for protection from imagined foes, only to find her distant and sad. The thought that I might be left alone in this world without her solid shield scares me.
Three months ago a battered little creature Im not sure if it was a ferret or a mouse crawled onto my bed. It was bruised, its halfshaggy body trembling against me. Though repulsed, pity won, and I let it curl into a ball on my pillow, its tiny breath shallow. In the dark room I realized we never had any ferrets or mice. The animal vanished, leaving only a warm indentation on the pillow. I swore it wasnt a dream.
That night, while my wife Alice was already asleep, I scrolled through my phone and found old photos of Mum and me, happy together, no fights. I didnt know what to think.
I lingered near the mall exit, intending to chase the vision of Mum, when a delivery driver asked the guard, Which floor is the homeware department? The guard replied, Third floor. I interjected, I work there, whos the delivery for? Maybe its for me?
The driver looked uncertain, then read the label on the parcel: For James H. I stepped forward, Thats me. He asked for my ID. I slipped my passport from my breast pocket, signed for the delivery, and stepped out onto the bustling street chatter, car horns, the usual city din. I tore open the package; inside was a note from Emily.
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 is 15 September. Three whole months went by without anyone telling me!
My head throbbed, my stomach twisted into knots, and I nearly fainted, leaning against the dusty, orangecoloured wall of the shopping centre. Mum, the woman who gave me endless love, loyalty, and protection, was gone. I remembered shouting to her, Im no longer your son! The words feel absurd now, but they echo in my mind. The thought of a kebab, a cappuccino, or my growing hunger vanished. I could not bring myself to open the letter there, so I walked, sightless, back to the park, sat down, and finally, with trembling hands, unfolded 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 fails. They say such a surge often signals the end is near.
James, dont blame yourself. How many times have I called your number, only to be cut off before the ring? Pride has made both of us hostages. Even now, pride stops me from calling you. Perhaps you dont think of me, perhaps you dont care, but you are my son, my child, and I cannot stop loving you.
Im sorry I never got along with your wife. I was wrong in places, but shes not easy either. Forgive me for the gaps in your upbringing; I raised you alone as best I could. Im probably a bad mother, given how easily you turned away. Youve punished me enough, son. Thats enough. Forgive me.
I would have liked to hear your voice one last time, to feel a miracle before I die
Tears streamed down my face, my fist clamped over my mouth. I never considered myself unloved. Mum always made time to talk, to comfort, to advise. She guarded us like a wolfess. When two classmates tried to bully me in Year Five, she grabbed a pocketknife and warned them, Touch James again and Ill cut off your ear. She enrolled me in karate, teaching me to stand firm, to hide no weakness, to fight if needed.
I pressed the phone to my ear, dialing her again and again, pleading in my mind: Mum, please answer. Im sorry, Ill change. Maybe this letter is a joke. The line was dead, a heavy silence like a coffin. Then, inevitably
Number no longer in service.
No! No! I wont believe this! I screamed, dialing over and over, hearing the same robotic denial.
In desperation I called Emily, but she shouted, Go to hell, you idiot! and hung up.
I called in sick from work and went home, standing like a statue in the doorway, jacket and shoes still on. My strength drained. Alice, on maternity leave with our baby, looked up, Whats happened, James?
I could barely speak. Mum died.
Her hand went to her chest, a feigned gasp that felt wrong. Did Emily call? Whens the funeral?
It was three months ago.
And they never told you? What a family! she snapped. I snapped back, Shut up! Dont bring up my family.
After a tense discussion we decided to drive to Emilys flat in Birmingham, where Mum used to live. I drove like a man possessed, anger burning at everything at myself, at Alice, at relatives, but especially at Emily. We burst into her flat, where she now lived. I was a mess, furious.
You should have told me Mum was ill! I shouted. Youre a
Emilys eyes flashed red. Should I have? It was your responsibility to keep in touch with her! Youre the one who ran off with that shrew, swapping my mother for a witch!
Alice tried to intervene, Dont
Emily cut her off, You live in a rented flat, you know that, right? Mum left the flat to me in her will. Im the heir.
I replied, I dont need the flat. I just want to talk, Emily.
She snarled, Talk? After all you did? You chose her over Mum!
Her brother, who had stayed out of the dispute, stepped in, Get out. Both of you leave now. This is my sisters home.
He pushed them towards the door, slammed it shut, and left. Alice trembled, humiliation washing over her. I stayed frozen, mouth open, unable to answer his accusations.
Later, in the car heading home, I finally spoke, coldly: A lot of this is your fault, Alice, but you bear the greatest share. Im also to blame, but youre the one who cant let go.
She replied, The final decision is yours, not mine. Both you and Emily are at fault. She should have told us!
The rest of the journey was a war of words. By the time we got back, I stopped answering her calls, stopped coming home. I vanished into a cheap hotel, refusing to answer any phone. A month slipped by. The only anchors pulling me back were the unsettled household and our baby boy.
Now, months later, I still sometimes think I see Mum on the street a fleeting silhouette that passes without notice. Yesterday I thought I saw her on a train, staring out the window, a crowd flooding the station. I pushed through, heart clenched, almost stepping on her foot. It was a stranger. I cant even be sure.
Out of habit, I still dial the number, hoping for any sound, any hum from the darkness, yet all I get is the same automated reply:
Number no longer in service.
I am your son! Mum, hear me!
Do not call this number again. Be glad you still have your wife.
The diary ends here, but the ache remains. I have lost my mother, my sense of self, and the world feels forever altered. I can only hope that one day I will find the courage to mend the broken bridges before they rust away completely.
