12September
Ive been dialling Mums number over and over, each time hearing the same cold, unchanging message: The number you have dialled is no longer in service. Its been two years since I last called her. My wife gave me an ultimatumher or my mother. I chose her.
The words no longer in service have lodged themselves in my mind, a chill crawling up my spine beneath my white shirt. I sat on a bench in the small park outside the High Street and watched a crowd of teenagers laughing and shouting, their voices a chaotic soundtrack to my thoughts. I felt like a stranger, bewildered by life, laughter, joy, the careless ease of youth. A letter lay on my lap, the envelope addressed in bold block letters: James. Full stop. Mum always ended everything with a period. I had already printed it out; the envelope was still sealed, meaning Emily hadnt opened it yet.
Mums flawless blockprint filled two pagesno flourishes, just neat, precise lettering, the kind of careful script youd see from a diligent schoolchild. The letter began: Dear James, my son. If youre reading this, Im no longer here
I swallowed hard, trying not to cry, but the words kept pulling the tears out of me.
I wasnt thinking about Mum at all when I left the office for a quick lunch. I was already imagining the savoury taste of a freshly made doner kebab, meat wrapped in crisp lettuce, tomato and cucumber, drizzled with that special garlicyoghurt sauce the vendor swears by. As I approached the revolving doors of the shopping centre, a figure stepped out onto the pavement and for a breath I thought it was Mum.
She wore a brown coat, her dark hair slightly wavy, not quite reaching her shoulders. Her gait was heavy, the tiredness of someone who works long hours evident in every step. It was her, the mother I had not seen for two years. In the past three months she had haunted my thoughtssometimes I dreamed she was packing her things, about to leave, other times I imagined myself seeking refuge with her from imagined foes, only to find her distant and melancholy, simply sitting there, far from the protective rock she once was.
Three months ago a small, bruised creaturewhether a ferret or a rathad crawled into my bed. It was thin, shivering, and despite my revulsion I let it curl up on the pillow next to my head. The next morning the animal was gone, leaving only a warm imprint on the fabric. I told myself it hadnt been a dream.
That night, after Alice had fallen asleep, I opened my phone andalmost by instinctfound photos of Mum and me, taken when we were still a happy family, no arguments, just smiles. I didnt know what to think.
Standing by the mall exit, I tried to chase after the silhouette that had seemed like Mum, but a couriers voice caught my attention:
Which floor is the electronics department on? Ive got a delivery.
The third floor, replied the guard briskly.
I work there, I interjected, glancing away from the doors, whos the delivery for? Maybe its for me?
The courier hesitated, then read the label on the parcel: To James Yates.
Thats me, I said, extending my hand.
ID, please, he asked.
I patted my chest, retrieved my passport from my jacket pocket, signed the receipt, and stepped back onto the bustling streetconversations, car horns, the ordinary clatter of a busy afternoon. I tore open the parcel; inside was a note from Emily.
Mum passed away on 12June. She asked me to give you this letter. Dont call meI wont answer. Youre a traitor to me.
June12! And today its 15September. Three whole months Id been kept in the dark.
A wave of nausea hit me, my stomach turning. I almost fainted, but the dusty, orangetinted wall of the shopping centre gave me something to lean against. My mother, the woman who had given me endless love, loyalty and protection, was gone. The words that had haunted me since the split with Alice resurfaced: Im no longer your son. I couldnt even think of the kebab, the cappuccino, the hunger that had been gnawing at me for the past two hours. It felt impossible to open the letter there, so I walked, eyes fixed on nothing, until I reached the small park and sat down. With trembling hands I finally unfolded the envelope.
so Im no longer here. I have cancer, stagefour. Today I felt an unexpected surge of strength and decided to write before my hand gave out. They say a sudden burst of energy means the end is near.
James, dont blame yourself. I called you countless times, leaving messages that never rang. Pride kept us both hostage. Even now, as I write, pride wont let me pick up the phone. Perhaps you think of me, perhaps you dont, but you are my son and I cant stop loving you.
Im sorry I never got along with Alice; I was wrong in places, but shes not an easy person either. Forgive me for the gaps in your upbringing. I raised you alone as best I could. Maybe I was a bad mother, and you turned away so easily. Youve punished me, son. Thats enough. Forgive me.
I had hoped, even in my last moments, for a miracleyour voice
Tears welled and I pressed my fist over my mouth. I had never felt unloved or neglected. Mum always made time to talk, to comfort, to advise. She guarded Emily and me like a shewolf. When two schoolboys tried to bully me in Year5, she grabbed one by the throat and threatened, Touch James again and Ill cut off your ear. She enrolled me in karate, teaching me to stand firm, to hide no weakness, only strength and, when needed, desperate courage.
I pressed my phone to my ear, imagined her voice, and thought:
Im calling you, Mum, please answer. Im sorry for being weak. Let this letter be a joke.
Silence, heavy as a coffin, then the same relentless tone: The number you have dialled is no longer in service.
No! I shouted, dialing again and again, only to hear the same deadend message.
In desperation I called Emily, but she answered with a scream: Go to hell, you idiot! and hung up.
I asked for time off work and drove home, standing motionless at the front door, shoes still on, coat still hanging. My energy was spent. Alice, on maternity leave with our baby, looked up.
Whats wrong, James? Youre home early.
I stared at her, words stuck in my throat.
Mum died.
She clutched her chest, a rehearsed gasp that felt hollow. Did Emily call? Whens the funeral?
It happened three months ago.
Why didnt anyone tell me? This family is
Shut up! I snapped. Dont bring up my family again.
After a brief, tense discussion we decided to travel to Emilys flat in Manchester, where my mother had lived before moving in with her. I drove like a man possessed, fury spilling over onto everyonemy wife, my relatives, but especially my sister.
We burst through the door of the flat that had once been Mums home. Emily was out of breath, eyes red.
You should have told me! You should have told me Mum was ill! Youre a
I should have? You never called! You were the one who should have spoken to her! she shouted back, her face flushed with anger.
Alice tried to intervene, Please
No! I cut her off. This is about you, not me.
Emilys voice trembled, I didnt owe you anything! It was your responsibility to stay in touch with Mum!
The argument escalated. I remembered how Mum refused to take a loan for our wedding, insisting we marry with what we had, while Alices parents argued over who should pay. Mum tried to befriend Alice, but Alice retreated into her bedroom, never helping with chores, claiming postnatal depression, and blaming Mum for every small inconvenience. When the baby arrived, Mum would sneak in to look after the child, which only enraged Alice further. The house was a battlefield of resentment, and Mums attempts at peace only deepened the rift.
In the end, Alice threatened, Either I leave with our son, or Mum takes the flat. Emily retorted, Youre a snake, turning everyone against me.
I felt the weight of my own part in this mess. Pride, stubbornness, and my choices had led us here. I knew I was to blame, but so were they. I could not keep living in that house, surrounded by bitter memories.
We left the flat, the door slamming shut behind us. On the way back, Alices voice cracked, You never stood up for me. You never defended me when he
I didnt answer. I sat on the cracked stairwell of our building, the tears finally breaking free. The silence in the car was deafening.
Later, as we drove home, I told Alice coldly, A large part of what happened is your fault, but youre the one who suffers the most. Im also to blame, but you must accept that both you and Emily share responsibility. You should have told us about Mums illness.
She stared at me, eyes burning, Youre still blaming me?
We argued for the rest of the journey. After that day I stopped coming home. I disappeared for weeks; Alice had no idea where I was staying, and my phone went unanswered. The divorce loomed, but the presence of our little boy and the need to keep a roof over our heads pulled me back. I returned, but I was distant, cold, my grief for Mum a black cloud over everything.
Sometimes, walking down the high street, I swear I see Mumher silhouette passing by, not noticing me at all. Yesterday I thought I caught a glimpse of her in the commuter train, staring out the window, a crowd rushing past. I pushed through, heart clenched, almost stepping on her footonly to realise she was a stranger.
Out of habit, I still dial the old number, hoping for even a single buzz, a hint of a connection. But the machine always replies, The number you have dialled is no longer in service.
I shout into the void, Im your son! Mum, please hear me!
The automated voice replies, Do not call this number again. You have a wife nowbe grateful.
