“Bloody beans on toast again, Mum? I can’t stand this fucking misery!” he shouted, slamming his fist on the table.
His mother flinched, the spoon clattering from her shaking hands. She dropped her gaze, swallowing the sting of shame.
“It’s all we’ve got, love,” she whispered, voice thin as fog.
With a huff, he shoved his plate away. Baked beans splattered across the lino, a few gloopy splashes landing on her faded floral blouse.
“Well, you eat it then, this slop!” he snapped, turning his back.
She said nothing. Just knelt on the worn-out kitchen tiles, trembling fingers picking up each stray bean—one by one. As if salvaging what little remained of both their supper and her dignity.
Later, she shuffled to her room. Kneeling by the bed, like she did every night, she prayed. For him.
But her son hadn’t felt love in years. Just irritation.
A few days later, he announced: “I’m off. Sick of this beggar’s life. London’s calling—gonna make something of myself.”
She didn’t stop him. Didn’t cry.
But with her heart in tatters, she grabbed his hand. “Just promise me one thing,” she pleaded. “Answer my calls. Please, son… please.”
He sighed, rolling his eyes.
Then, barely audible, she added: “I’m tired, love. Think my time’s running out.”
“The day I stop calling… means I’m gone.”
He yanked his hand free and walked out. Didn’t even say goodbye properly.
⸻
London wasn’t the dream he’d pictured.
Worked every rubbish job imaginable: stacking shelves, bouncing at dodgy bars, lugging bricks on building sites.
Barely scraping by. But every single day… his phone rang.
“Hello, love. How’re you?”
“Busy, Mum. Bye.”
And he’d hang up. The calls got shorter. Colder. Until one day… silence.
No ringtone. No nagging.
That quiet? Louder than any shout.
He stared at his phone all evening, the thought gnawing:
“She’s dead.”
Didn’t shed a tear. Didn’t even try calling back. Couldn’t be arsed to go to the funeral either—no money for a train. Wouldn’t have gone even if he had.
⸻
Days passed. His mum was gone.
Then, skint and desperate, a mate offered him “easy cash”:
“Just drive a van, yeah? Simple.”
He knew what was in that van. Didn’t care.
That night, he adjusted the rearview, gripped the wheel—
Bzzzt.
Unknown number.
He answered.
“Son… don’t do it. Turn back. Now. Please.”
Her voice.
“Mum?! You’re alive?!”
“Listen to me. Go home. And be careful.”
Click.
He redialled—fast.
But a robotic voice droned: “The number you have called is not recognised.”
Hands shaking, he stumbled out of the van, drenched in cold sweat. Sold his crap—jeans, trainers, whatever—scrounged up train fare home.
⸻
The house was quiet. Neighbours gave him sad looks.
“Your mum passed last month, lad.”
His knees hit the pavement.
“That’s bollocks—she rang me YESTERDAY!”
“Can’t have, son. She’s been gone weeks.”
Inside, the air still smelled like her—tea and talcum powder.
By her bed, two worn dents in the carpet. Where she’d knelt nightly, praying… for him.
In the corner, a notepad—page after page of prayers. His name, first. Every day. From the moment he left… till her last breath.
He collapsed to his knees, sobbing like a kid.
Then, washing his face in the kitchen, he saw it—a folded note on the table. Not a letter. A prayer, in her scrawl:
“Lord, I feel my time’s near. If I go, I can’t pray for my boy anymore. So… I leave him to You.
If ever he’s in danger—please, warn him. Call this number.”
And below? His mobile.
At that exact second—bzzzt.
News alert: “Van ambushed in Peckham. Driver shot dead. Load stolen.”
The photo? The same van. HIS van.
He crumpled to the floor.
That call… came from heaven.
God heard a mother’s last wish. And saved the son who never loved her back.
So if your mum still rings you? Pick up. Before it’s too late.
