Everything will be alright, son…
“Eddie, love, it’s Mum,” came the quiet voice on the phone.
Edward had always found it irritating how his mother announced herself—as if he wouldn’t recognise her voice. He’d told her a hundred times that caller ID showed her name, so of course he knew it was her.
She still used an old brick phone. He’d bought her a modern one, full of features, but she’d refused.
“I’m too old for all that. Give it to… Margaret. Her daughter never buys her nice things. She’d love it.”
Margaret had been thrilled with the phone, mastering it quickly. Edward hadn’t given it to her without reason—he’d programmed his number in, so if anything happened to his mother, Margaret could call him straight away.
“Mum, I know it’s you,” Edward said, smiling. “Everything alright?”
“Love, I’m in hospital.”
The words sent a chill down his spine.
“What happened? Your heart? Blood pressure?” he pressed, voice urgent.
“Op’s tomorrow. Hernia’s flared up. Can’t bear it any longer.”
“Why didn’t you call sooner? Mum, I’ll come first thing—get you to London. The hospitals here are better, the surgeons brilliant. Please, don’t go through with it here,” he pleaded.
“Don’t fret, love. Remember Dr. Whitmore? He’s very good—”
“Mum, listen. I’ll be there tomorrow morning. Don’t let them operate till then,” he interrupted, raising his voice as hers faded.
“No need to worry. Everything’ll be alright, love. I love you…”
The line went dead.
Edward checked the screen. The numbers glowed—10 minutes past midnight.
His mother’s last words had been muffled, distant. She never called this late. Something was wrong. He dialled her number again and again—no answer.
He pushed back from his desk and glanced outside. The sleet had been falling for two days straight. In good weather, the drive to the village took five hours. Tonight, it’d be six. He had to leave now—take it slow, but make it before the operation. Who knew when they’d start? The country roads would be a mess.
He shut down his laptop and grabbed his coat. At the door, he remembered his phone charger. Back inside, he snatched it, then paused in the hallway. *”If you forget something and come back, look in the mirror before leaving,”* his mother’s voice echoed in his head.
His reflection showed tired eyes, a tense jaw. *”She said everything would be fine. She never lied to me.”*
In the car, he debated calling Margaret. She and his mother were neighbours, friends for decades. But country folk went to bed early. Why hadn’t Margaret called? He’d warned her to. The worry twisted again. The engine warmed, and he pulled away.
How many times had he begged his mother to move in with him? His flat was spacious. But she’d always refused. *”You’re young, love. I’d only be in the way. I’m happy here.”*
Oh, Mum. Why didn’t you call sooner? Always so careful not to be a bother.
He replayed the call. Only now did he realise what had unsettled him—her voice had been odd, muted, as if speaking through a barrier. The last words were barely audible. And she’d sounded guilty. Probably thought she’d woken him.
The hernia wasn’t new—it ached when the weather turned. But she’d put off surgery. Too busy planting the garden, then harvesting, then Margaret caught a cold and needed looking after. Always an excuse.
And him? Barely an hour’s drive away, but always too busy. Making excuses of his own.
He remembered her as kind, warm—but firm when needed. Quick to scold if he deserved it, even quicker to forgive. At sixteen, when he’d stumbled home at dawn, drunk on kisses, she’d just looked at him—sharp, silent—then turned away. *”Where’s the rush? Think you’re ready for marriage? You’ll howl like a wolf if you wed now. Go to bed—I can’t bear to look at you.”*
The next day, her silence had been worse than any shout. Later, when she’d softened, he’d asked, *”Why the lecture? Everyone stays out late. Didn’t you?”*
And she’d told him—how she’d fallen in love at seventeen, how she’d whispered promises under nightingales’ songs. How the boy had bolted when she’d fallen pregnant. Eddie’s father had stepped in, claimed the child, set a wedding date. But before the vows, she’d lost the baby among the potato rows. He’d married her anyway. And Edward had come eight years later.
The road was dark, monotonous. His eyelids drooped. Twice, he nearly crashed—once jerking awake as his car veered into oncoming traffic, again swerving last minute from a ditch. He blasted the radio, sang along to stay awake.
The hospital was an old brick building, only a few windows lit. Three doctors worked there—a GP, a surgeon, and an assistant. Anything serious went to the city.
He knocked. To his surprise, the door opened quickly despite the early hour—half six. A nurse eyed him, glanced past him.
“Reception starts at eight,” she said flatly.
“My mother. She’s meant for surgery today—Edith Katherine Harris.”
The nurse studied him. “Come in. Wait here.”
The room was small, walls half-painted, a stained medical couch against one wall. Gloomy.
Ten minutes later, a doctor entered. Edward recognised him—the same man who’d treated his stomach ache years ago.
“Dr. Whitmore?”
“Here’s the situation,” the doctor began, ignoring the question. “Edith Harris passed yesterday.”
“What? The op was scheduled for today—she *called*, said—”
“We operated yesterday morning. Too late, I’m afraid. She died by evening.”
“That’s impossible. She rang me at half eleven last night—said the op was *today*! I drove through the night to—” He pulled out his phone. No recent calls from her. Had he dreamed it?
“Nurse, fetch Mrs. Harris’s things.” Dr. Whitmore watched him with pity. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah. But I heard her. She said—” His legs gave way. He sank onto the couch, face in his hands.
His phone buzzed—Margaret. He ignored it.
“Can I see her?” he croaked.
The doctor shook his head. “She’s in the morgue. Best remember her as she was. You’ll need to arrange the funeral. Burying her in the village? Cheaper than the city. The undertaker’s down the road. Sorry, I must go.”
Outside, the sky hung low, grey. The sleet had stopped. He drove to the village, mind racing. How had she called? He’d heard of such things but never believed them. A dream? But he’d been awake, working.
Margaret spotted his car, rushed out, clutched him, sobbed into his coat.
“Eddie, love, finally. Forgive me—I begged her to call an ambulance! But she wouldn’t. Stubborn as ever. Said it’d pass. When she couldn’t walk, Tom drove her. Said she groaned the whole way—our roads, you know. Straight into surgery. I didn’t go—no room in the cab. Forgive me, Eddie—”
He led her inside.
“She wouldn’t let me call you. ‘No need to fuss,’ she said. Tom went back last evening—told me she’d gone. I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“Not your fault, Margaret. Mine. When did I last visit? Always ‘too busy’.”
“Come to mine? The house is cold—no fire for two days.”
“No, you go. I’ll stay.”
She left. The house was tidy, just the rug rumpled by the bed—where she’d lain. He straightened it, then collapsed onto the sheets and wept.
He woke shivering. Lit the stove—old habits held. A pot of porridge sat inside, still good. He ate from it, tears salty on his lips.
That evening, Margaret returned.
“Ned left a bundle ready.” She opened the wardrobe. “Showed me last year. New dress, slippers, a scarf. All she’ll need. Don’t fret—we’ve all got one. We’re all under God.” She crossed herself. “Ask them to put her cross on—don’t forget.”
He fished out a tin cross on a black cord.
“They gave it you? Put it on her yourself. Just in case. When will you fetch her?”
“Tomorrow. Tell the others.”
“Burying her here? Good. Next to John. I’ll tell the women. Don’t worry about the wake—we’And as years passed, Edward often felt his mother’s presence in the quiet moments—when his daughter laughed just like her or when the old house creaked in the wind—knowing she had kept her promise that everything would be alright.
