Hey love, it’s me, just needed to get this out of my chest. So James was dialing his mum’s number over and over, but every time the line just said, Number not in service. He hadn’t spoken to her in two years. His wife, Ellen, had forced him to pick a side her or his mum and he chose Ellen.
Number not in service The words hit him like a cold splash, and a shiver ran down his spine beneath his crisp white shirt. He sat on a bench in the park and watched a gaggle of laughing teens saunter by, feeling like a stray animal that didn’t belong anywhere, clueless about why life, laughter, and carefree moments mattered at all. A letter lay on his lap, the envelope stamped in bold block letters with just his name: James. A full stop. Mum always liked to end things neatly. Hed already opened it, though the flap was still sealed, meaning his sister hadnt peeked inside. Mums neat, almost perfect script filled two pages no flourishes, just straight, precise letters, the sort of handwriting top school kids get praised for. It started: Dear James, my love. If youre reading this, Im gone
He let out a low grunt at that line, trying not to choke back tears, but they kept coming as he read on.
He hadnt been thinking about his mum that day. Hed gone out for a quick bite, craving a doner kebab the juicy spiced meat, crisp salad, tomato and cucumber, drenched in that tangy sauce that the kebab shop swears by. As he stood by the revolving doors of the shopping centre, he thought he saw someone step out onto the street: his mum, the one he hadnt seen in two years. A brown coat, slightly wavy dark hair that didnt quite reach her shoulders, a weary walk of a woman worn down by work and chores. She was exactly the mother that had haunted his dreams for the past three months, appearing here and there, sometimes packing bags as if about to leave, sometimes just sitting, looking lost and sad. The thought terrified him being alone in this world without her steady presence.
Three months earlier a small creature halfferret, halfrat had crawled into his bed. It was bruised and trembling, clinging to his warm, halfshaggy torso. James felt a pang of disgust but his pity won out; he let the little thing curl up on his pillow right next to his head. The poor thing barely breathed. Then, in the dark, he realised there were never any ferrets or rats in his flat. When he thought about it, the creature vanished, leaving only a warm imprint on the pillow. He swore it hadnt been a dream.
Later that night, while Ellen was already asleep, James opened his phone and, almost by reflex, pulled up old photos of him and his mum, smiling together as a family, not fighting. He didnt know what to think.
He lingered by the centres exit, intending to chase after the woman whod looked like his mum, when he overheard a courier asking the security guard for the floor with appliances. Third floor, the guard replied. James, halflistening, blurted, I work there, whos the delivery for? Maybe its for me?
There was a strange feeling in his gut. The courier, a bit unsure, read the label on the parcel: To James Hartley. James reached out, Thats me. The courier asked for his ID. He fished his passport from his shirt pocket, signed for the package, and stepped outside. The street buzzed with chatter and car horns. He tore the parcel open and found a note from his sister.
Mum died on 12 June. She asked me to give you this letter. Dont call me I wont answer. You were and always will be a traitor to me.
June 12! And it was already 15 September. Three whole months he hadnt known. His head pounded, his stomach churned, and he nearly fainted, but the dusty brick wall of the centre steadied him. Mum was dead the woman whod given him endless love, loyalty, protection the one whod shouted, Im not your son any more! after he chose Ellen.
All thoughts of kebab, coffee, or hunger vanished. He didnt even want to open the letter there. He made his way back to the park, sat on the same bench, and finally unfolded the envelope.
so Im gone. I have cancer, stage four. Today I felt a sudden surge of strength and decided to write before my hand gave out. They say such a burst often signals the end is near.
James, dont blame yourself. I called your number countless times, waiting for the rings to stop. Were both prisoners of pride. Even now, as I write, pride stops me from calling you. Maybe you dont think of me, maybe you dont care, but youre my son and I cant stop loving you.
Im sorry I never got along with Ellen, I was wrong in places but shes not easy either. Im sorry for the gaps in your upbringing; I raised you alone the best I could. I was probably a bad mother, and you turned away so easily. Youve punished me, son. Thats enough. Forgive me.
I wish I could have waited for a miracle and heard your voice before I went
James burst into tears, clenching his fists. Hed never felt unloved or ignored. Mum always made time for him, comforted him, gave advice, defended him like a wolf. When a few bullies tried to pick on him in Year Five, she grabbed one by the ear and whispered, Cross my boy again and Ill cut off your ear. She enrolled him in karate, teaching him to stand his ground, never show weakness.
He pressed the phone to his ear, imagined hearing her voice, and whispered in his head, Mum, please pick up. Im sorry for being a wimp. Let this letter be a joke!
Silence answered, heavy as a coffin, then the same cruel line: Number not in service.
He shouted, No! No! I dont believe this! and dialed again and again, each time the same cold reply.
In desperation he called his sister, Nat, who snarled, Go to hell, you idiot! and hung up.
He asked for time off work and trudged home, standing at the doorstep like a statue, shoes still on, coat still on. His energy drained. Ellen, on maternity leave with their baby, looked up, Whats wrong, love? Youre early.
He stared at her, words stuck, and managed, Mum died.
She gasped, clutching her chest in a rehearsed gesture that felt fake. Did your sister call? Whens the funeral?
It happened three months ago. Ellen replied, halfmocking, And nobody told you? Lovely family, huh?
Shut up! James snapped. Dont bring my family into this.
After calming down they decided to drive to Nats place. Nat lived in a town up north, a few hours away. James hammered the accelerator, anger and grief mixing into a wild roar. He blamed everyone himself, Ellen, his family but especially Nat.
They burst into the flat Nat had been living in after Mum moved out. Nat was there, eyes wide with shock.
You shouldve told me! You shouldve let me know Mum was sick! Youre a scumbag! James shouted, fists clenched.
Nat, cheeks flushed, shot back, I didnt owe you anything! You shouldve kept in touch with Mum yourself! Youre a wimp, a spineless husband, swapping the woman who raised you for this this nightmare!
Ellen tried to intervene, Dont
James cut her off, This isnt about you! You both needed to tell me! You both turned on Mum!
Nats anger shifted to a bitter sarcasm, What do you want, James? A house? Mum left us the flat, didnt she? Its yours now, right? You think Im greedy?
He remembered the old fight about the wedding loan, how Mum refused a mortgage and forced them to marry with nothing but love. Ellen, a difficult woman, had always clashed with Mums attempts to help. Ellen would lock herself in her room, avoiding Mum, and later claim postnatal depression while snapping at James, even kicking the babys cot. Mum would sneak in to play with the baby, which only drove Ellen mad. Shed complain, Why do you keep asking me the same things? Im tired of it. Eventually Mum stopped visiting, taking the few flowers from the windowsill that Ellen wilfully wilted.
One day a relative visited and remarked, Your flat is a mess. Mum snapped back, Im the only one trying to keep this place together while Ellen does nothing but sit and whine. I cant keep swapping apartments forever.
Ellen burst out of her room, hurling curses at Mum, becoming the worst motherinlaw ever imagined. The argument exploded, and James, torn between them, felt his world crumble.
Nat shouted, Leave, I dont want to talk to you. Dont make me call the police.
Ellen, fuming, replied, Half this flat is mine, James! Nat retorted, Its Mums will, I inherited it! Ellen nearly fainted from the shock.
James, pale, tried to calm the storm: Nat, I just want to talk, not fight. Ellen snapped, Youre not needed here! Were renting, remember?
A brotherinlaw, whod stayed out of the mess, finally stepped in: Out! Get out of here before I before I lose my mind. He shoved both of them out, slamming the door.
Ellen, trembling, whispered, Why were you silent? Why didnt you stand up for me when he called me a liar?
James could only sit on the filthy stairs and weep. Ellen walked away, and the car ride home was silent. He finally said coldly, A huge part of this is your fault, Ellen. Im also to blame, but you bear the heaviest weight. How can I live with you after this?
She answered, The decision was yours, not mine. Both you and Nat are at fault. Nat shouldve told us! She shouldve told us!
They argued all the way home, and James eventually stopped answering Ellens calls. He vanished from the house, his whereabouts unknown to her. For almost a month he drifted, held back only by bills and their little son. He eventually returned, but he was a shell distant, cold, his grief for Mum still raw. Ellen, meanwhile, felt no remorse for Mum; she only pitied James, the man whose mother had managed to ruin everything even in her final days.
Now and then James thinks he sees his mum on the street, a fleeting silhouette that disappears when he turns. Yesterday he thought he saw her on a train, eyes fixed on the window. A crowd surged in, he squeezed through, his heart tightening like a steel band, almost stepping on her foot but it was someone else, not his mum.
Sometimes, out of habit, he dials her number, hoping for even a static hiss, a single tone from the void.
Number not in service, the machine says, as always.
Im your son! Mum, please hear me!
Dont call this number again. Be glad you have Ellen.
