Jack Turner kept dialing his mothers number, over and over, each time hearing the same cold, automatic message: The number you have dialed is no longer in service. He hadnt spoken to her in two years. His wife had given him an impossible choice her or his mother. He had chosen his wife.
The words echoed in his head, a frost settling in his chest, a thin sweat forming beneath his crisp white shirt. He sat on a bench in a little garden, where a swarm of laughing teenagers drifted past like a river of giggles. Jack stared at them, feeling wild and detached, as if the world life, laughter, carefree moments were a strange tableau he could not place himself in. A letter lay on his knees, the envelope stamped in bold letters with his name: Jack. A full stop. His mother always closed things with a period. He had already printed it out. It was still sealed, untouched, so his sister had not read it. The paper inside bore his mothers immaculate, unadorned handwriting every letter a single, precise stroke, as if penned by a topclass pupil. It began: Dearest Jack, my son. If you are reading this, then I am no longer here
Jack swallowed a harsh grunt. He tried to hold back tears, but the words kept pulling them loose.
He did not think of his mother that day. He went out for lunch, craving a kebab wrapped in soft flatbread, piled with cabbage, tomato, cucumber, and drenched in a tangy sauce his favourite street vendor called the Tajik twist. As he stood before the revolving doors of the Willow Mall, a sudden flash of memory made him think his mother was stepping out onto the street. She wore a brown coat, dark slightly wavy hair that fell just above her shoulders, a weary gait of a woman worn down by work and routine. She was his mother, exactly as he had imagined her in fleeting dreams over the past three months sometimes packing bags, sometimes distant and sad, sometimes simply sitting, a strange, uncharacteristic stillness that made Jack feel the world might collapse without her protective presence.
Three months earlier, a ragtag creature halfmouse, halfrat had crawled into Jacks bed. It was bruised, its fur halfshaved, and though it repulsed him, pity won over disgust. He let it curl into a ball on his pillow, right next to his head, and it breathed its tiny, exhausted breath. In the darkness he realised there were no such pests in his flat; when he thought of that, the animal vanished, leaving only a warm dent in the pillow. He swore he had not dreamed it.
That night his wife, Alice, was already asleep. Jack grabbed his phone and, as if by instinct, found old photographs of him with his mother smiling, together, not fighting. He didnt know what to think.
He lingered near the malls exit, intending to chase the phantom of his mother, when a courier asked the guard, Which floor is the electronics department? Third floor, the guard replied. I work there, Jack interjected, turning away from the doors. Whos the delivery for? Maybe its for me?
He felt a premonition. The courier read the label on the parcel: To Jack Turner. He handed over his passport, and the courier inspected it. After signing for the package, Jack stepped back onto the bustling street the chatter of pedestrians, the hum of traffic. He tore open the parcel; inside was a note from his sister, Natalie.
Mother passed away on 12 June. She asked me to give you this letter. Dont call me I wont answer. Youre a traitor to me.
12 June! Today was 15 September. He hadnt heard anything for three whole months. A wave of nausea rolled through his head, his stomach twisted, and he nearly fainted, leaning against the dusty, orangebrick wall of the shopping centre. His mother, the woman who had given him endless love, loyalty, protection the woman he had once shouted at his wife, Im no longer your son! was dead.
The thought of the kebab, the cappuccino, the hunger that had gnawed at him for hours faded. He could not bring himself to open the letter there. He walked, blind, to the garden, sat down, and finally broke the seal.
so I am no longer here. I have cancer, fourth stage. Today I felt an unexpected surge of energy and decided to write before my hand failed. They say a sudden burst of strength is a sure sign that the end is near.
Jack, dont blame yourself. How many times did I dial your number and hang up before the rings started? Pride held us both hostage. Even now, as I write these lines, pride stops me from calling you, and you dont call either. Perhaps you think of me at all, perhaps you dont care, but you are my son, my child, and I cannot stop loving you.
Im sorry I never clicked with your wife; I was wrong in places, but she isnt easy either. Forgive the gaps in your upbringing; I raised you alone as best I could. Perhaps I was a bad mother, since you turned away so easily. You have punished me, son. That is enough. Forgive me.
I would have liked, before I died, to wait for a miracle and hear your voice
Jack choked back a sob, his fist pressed to his lips. He had never felt unloved or neglected. His mother always found time to talk, to comfort, to listen, to advise. She guarded him and his sister like a wolfess. When two boys in Year Five tried to bully him, she chased one down the street and pressed a pocketknife to his ear: Touch Jack again and Ill cut off your ear. She enrolled Jack in karate, teaching him to stand his ground, to show strength, not weakness.
He pressed the phone to his ear, imagined the dial tone, and whispered in his mind, Im calling you, Mother, please pick up. Im sorry for being weak. Let this letter be a joke!
Silence pressed in, heavy as a coffin, then the same recorded voice: The number you have dialed is no longer in service.
No! No! Jack screamed, dialing again and again, each time the message repeated: Number no longer in service.
Desperate, he called Natalie, but she screamed, Go to hell, you idiot! and hung up.
He asked for time off work and drove home. He stood in the doorway, coat and shoes still on, feeling drained. Alice, on sick leave with their baby, looked up. Why are you up so early? Something happen, Jack?
Jack looked at her, his words stuck. Mother died.
Alice clutched her chest, a rehearsed gesture that felt false. What? Did Natalie call? Whens the funeral?
It happened three months ago. You didnt tell us? Great family! No wonder we Jack snapped, Shut up! Stop bringing my family into this.
After a nervous pause they decided to drive to Natalies place. All of Jacks former family lived in a provincial town up north, so they set off straight away.
Jack drove like a man possessed, rage spilling onto everyone himself, his wife, his relatives especially his sister. They burst into the flat Natalie now occupied, the one his mother had once called home. Jacks voice cracked as he hurled at her, You should have told me! You should have said Mother was sick! Youre a monster!
Natalies face flushed with anger. Do I owe you that? No! You should have spoken to her yourself! Youre a spineless wimp who traded his mother for this
Alice tried to intervene. Dont
Stay out of it! Jack roared, Its your fault too! You never helped! The flat, the money, the endless complaints about Mum!
The argument spiralled into accusations about wedding expenses, about Alices depression, about the constant bickering over who would clean, who would cook, who would look after the baby. Mother had once tried to smooth things over, but Alice retreated to her room, never letting Jack in. The house became a battlefield of shouts and slammed doors.
Jack remembered the day his mother had pressed a spoon against the babys cheek to calm it, how Alice would kick the cot in anger, how his mother would slip in, take the child, and disappear, leaving Alice fuming. He recalled the endless pleas for the flat to be swapped so Jack and Alice could buy a mortgage, promises that never materialised.
Natalie, eyes flashing, shouted, Youre the one who should have called! Youre the one who let this happen! Jack, pale, could not answer. At that moment Natalies brother, who had stayed out of the feud, stepped forward. Enough. Get out. Leave this cursed place, he snarled, pushing both Jack and Alice towards the door.
Jack fell onto the grimy staircase, tears streaming, while Alice trembled with humiliation. He could not speak. The car ride home was silent. Finally, Jack said coldly, What happened was partly your fault, but you bear the heavier share. Im guilty too, but youre the one who should have told us.
Alice answered, The final decision was yours, not mine. Both you and Natalie are to blame. She should have informed us.
They argued all the way, and Jack stopped answering her calls. He vanished from the house; where he slept, Alice never knew. He ignored the phone for weeks. The only things that kept him tethered to life were the bills and his small son. Eventually he drifted back, but his heart stayed cold, his love for Alice dulled. Grief for his mother loomed over everything.
Sometimes, in the rush of the commuter train, Jack thought he saw his mother on the platform, a fleeting phantom that vanished when he turned. He would sometimes dial her number out of habit, hoping for a faint crackle, a single tone from the void. Yet every time the same recorded voice answered: The number you have dialed is no longer in service.
I am your son! Mother, mother, hear me! he would whisper into the silent line, as the world around him swirled like a strange, endless dream.
