“Egg and chips *again*, Mum? I can’t stand this poverty anymore!” he snapped, his voice sharp with frustration.
His mother flinched, startled. The spoon slipped from her trembling fingers and clattered onto the table. She fixed her gaze on the floor, too ashamed to meet his eyes.
“It’s all we’ve got, love…” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
The boy slammed his plate down. Chips scattered across the lino, a few clinging stubbornly to his mother’s cheek.
“Then eat it yourself, this muck!” he snapped, turning away.
She said nothing. Just knelt on the worn kitchen tiles, hands shaking, picking up each stray chip—one by one. As if salvaging what little was left… of food, of dignity.
Then she went to her room.
Knelt by her bed, as she did every night.
And prayed. For him.
But the boy no longer felt her love.
No longer saw her worth.
Days later, he announced:
“I’m leaving. I’ve had enough of this beggar’s life. Off to London—I want more.”
She didn’t stop him. Didn’t cry.
Just clutched his hand with a broken heart and said:
“Promise me one thing—answer my calls. Please, son… *please*.”
He sighed, irritated.
Then she added, her voice cracking:
“I’m tired… I think my time’s nearly up.”
“The day I stop ringing… it’ll mean I’m gone.”
He yanked his hand free—and walked out.
Didn’t even say goodbye properly.
⸻
London wasn’t what he’d dreamed.
Worked odd jobs—shifted crates, bouncer at dodgy clubs, mixed cement on building sites.
A hot meal? A luxury. Cash? Even rarer.
But every day… the phone rang.
“Hello, love… how are you?”
“Busy, Mum. Bye.”
And he’d slam the receiver down. Sharper each time. Colder.
Until one day… the phone didn’t ring at all.
And that silence… screamed louder than any words.
He stared at the screen all day.
Evening came. He thought: *She’s dead.*
He didn’t cry.
Didn’t even try to call back.
Wouldn’t have gone to the funeral even if he could.
No money. And even if he’d had it—wouldn’t have bothered.
⸻
Days passed. He knew: she was gone.
Worn down by hardship, he agreed to a sketchy offer:
“Easy work. Just drive a car,” said a mate.
The boot was stuffed with drugs. He knew.
But he wanted quick cash.
That night, he adjusted the mirror, gripped the wheel…
And his phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He answered.
“Son… *please*, don’t do it. Turn back. Now. *Please*.”
The voice… *hers.*
His heart hammered.
“Mum!? You’re alive!?”
“Listen to me. Go home. And take care.”
Then the line went dead.
He tried calling back.
But a robotic voice crushed his chest:
“*The number you have dialled does not exist.*”
He stumbled out, drenched in cold sweat, gasping.
Sold what little he had—spare clothes, a pair of trainers.
Scraped together enough coins for a train ticket home.
⸻
When he arrived, the street was quiet.
Neighbours looked at him with pity.
“Your mum passed last month…”
He collapsed onto the pavement.
“Can’t be… she rang me *yesterday*!”
“Impossible, son. She’s been gone weeks.”
He stepped inside.
The air still smelled of her.
The silence was unbearable.
In her room, near the bed—two worn dents in the floorboards.
Where she’d knelt every night… praying for him.
In the corner, a list of prayers.
His name—first. Every day.
From the moment he left… until her last.
He dropped to his knees.
Sobbed. Breathless.
Stumbled to the kitchen, splashed water on his face… and saw it.
A folded slip of paper on the table.
Not a letter.
A prayer. In her handwriting:
*”Lord, I feel my time’s near.
If I die, I can’t pray for my boy anymore.
So… I give him to You.
If he’s ever in danger, I beg You—warn him.
Ring him at this number.”*
And below… *his number.*
At that moment, his phone buzzed.
A news alert:
*”Car shot up in Peckham. Driver dead. Cargo missing.”*
The photo showed the very car he was meant to drive that night.
He crumpled to his knees.
And understood.
That call… had come from heaven.
God had heard a mother’s last prayer.
And saved the son who’d forgotten how to love.
If your mum still rings you—pick up.
Before it’s too late.
