“Your Number’s Gone Again”
“Mum, how many times?!” Emily flung her phone onto the table so hard the screen flickered and went dark. “Every single day! Every bloody day!”
“Emily, love, I didn’t mean to…” Margaret clutched her old brick phone, the numbers worn off the buttons. “I just forgot again. My memory’s not what it used to be.”
“Forgot!” Emily sprang up from the sofa, pacing the room. “Mum, I’ve told you a hundred times! Press the green button when the phone rings. Green! Not red, not blue—green!”
“I did press the green one…”
“No, Mum, you pressed red because I heard the quick beeps. That means you hung up on me!”
Margaret looked helplessly at her daughter, then at the phone. Small, black, with buttons that seemed too tiny one moment and too bright the next. She remembered when the whole street shared one phone, mounted on the wall in the hallway. Simpler times.
“Couldn’t I just… not have one?” she murmured. “We managed without them before.”
“Mum!” Emily froze, staring at her like she’d said something awful. “What if something happens to you? What if I can’t reach you?”
“Alright, alright,” Margaret surrendered. “I’ll keep trying. Show me again.”
Emily sat beside her, taking the phone in her manicured hands—hands Margaret still thought were too polished. Her own, speckled with age spots and knobbly knuckles, looked ancient next to them.
“Look, Mum. When it rings, the screen lights up. See? Green button on the left—‘answer.’ Red on the right—‘decline.’ Green for yes, red for no.”
“Green for yes, red for no,” Margaret repeated. “What if I mix them up?”
“You won’t,” Emily sighed. “Think of green like grass—good. Red like danger—bad.”
“Right,” Margaret nodded, though grass and danger made no sense to her. “How do I call you?”
“Mum, we’ve done this. Tap my photo in contacts. See? I set it up for you. ‘Emily Daughter.’ Tap it, and it rings me.”
Margaret squinted at the screen. There was Emily’s photo—smiling, young, nothing like the stressed woman scowling at her now.
“What if I forget where your photo is?”
“It’s at the top of the list!”
“Fine. What if the phone breaks?”
“It won’t,” Emily rubbed her temples. “Tell you what, I’ll write my number on the fridge. Big digits. Call me from the landline.”
“We don’t have a landline. You said mobiles made them pointless.”
“Then ask a neighbor.”
“Which neighbors?” Margaret floundered. “They’re all young professionals. Too busy for chats.”
“Mum,” Emily dropped onto the sofa, face in her hands. “I don’t know what to do. I call daily, and you don’t pick up. I panic, rush over—and you’re fine, just pressed the wrong button.”
“I’m sorry, love. I never mean to upset you.”
“I know. But you do.”
Margaret studied her hands—once capable of cooking feasts, scrubbing stains, cradling baby Emily. Now defeated by a tiny plastic box.
“Remember,” she said suddenly, “your toy phone? Pink, with huge buttons. You’d ‘call’ Granny for hours.”
“Yeah, taught me numbers,” Emily softened.
“Now I’m the one learning numbers,” Margaret smiled sadly. “How things change.”
Emily scooted closer. “Let’s try again. Slowly. I’ll call now—you answer. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Emily dialed. Margaret’s phone buzzed, lighting up with her photo.
“See my face? Now press green. This one.”
Margaret stared. Two buttons: green, red. She knew which was which. Yet her finger drifted toward red.
“No, Mum! That one—green!” Emily grabbed her wrist.
“Sorry, sorry. I knew that.”
Margaret hit green. A chirp, then Emily’s voice—both in the room and through the speaker.
“Hello? Mum, can you hear me?”
“Yes! I did it!”
“Brilliant!” Emily ended the call. “See? Easy. Again?”
They practiced for half an hour. Seven out of ten times, Margaret got it right.
“Why do you press red?” Emily asked. “You know it’s green.”
“I know. But red’s… bigger. Or brighter.”
“Maybe you need a different phone. One for seniors—big buttons, simple screen.”
“No,” Margaret said quickly. “This was my birthday gift. I’ll get used to it.”
Emily kissed her cheek. “Work calls. We’ll practice tomorrow.”
Alone, Margaret studied the phone. Small, light. Too clever by half.
She tried calling Emily. It beeped—long tones. Panicked, she hit red.
Tried again. And again. By evening, she could dial but still fumbled answering.
Next day, Emily arrived exasperated.
“Mum, you called me fifteen times yesterday! I thought you were dying!”
“I was practicing.”
“Practice without actually calling! Hear long beeps? That’s good. Short beeps? Wrong button.”
“But I wanted to hear your voice.”
Emily sat beside her. “I call daily, Mum. But I can’t be here always. I’ve got a job, a life.”
“I know, love. I don’t expect you to be. It’s just… I get scared.”
“Of what?”
“Everything. The phone breaking. Getting ill. Forgetting your number.”
“It’s saved in contacts. I set it up.”
“And if I lose the phone?”
“We’ll get a new one.”
“Your number?”
“Written in ten places! Your address book, the fridge, your purse. You won’t lose it.”
Margaret nodded, but dread lingered. She used to know every number—neighbors, doctors, Emily’s school. Now she barely recalled her own.
“Numbers were shorter in my day,” she mused. “Five digits. Now it’s eleven!”
“You don’t need to memorize them, Mum. That’s what contacts are for.”
“But what if I forget how to use them?”
“You won’t.”
“I will. I forget loads lately. Spent half an hour hunting my glasses—they were on my head. Couldn’t recall Mrs. Higginson’s name, and she’s lived downstairs fifteen years.”
“That’s normal, Mum. Everyone forgets things.”
“Not you.”
“Course I do! Last week I blanked in the supermarket—left the shopping list at home.”
“That’s different. You’re young, busy. I’m just… old.”
“Age isn’t an excuse. My friend Linda’s seventy-five—on social media, posting grandkid pics. Taught herself.”
“She’s clever.”
“So are you. Just need patience.”
Margaret studied her daughter—her father’s dark eyes, but her own gentle temperament.
“Alright,” she conceded. “Let’s try again. But don’t get cross if I muck it up.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
They drilled calls and texts (the latter an outright disaster).
“Stick to calls for now,” Emily advised.
“How did people cope before mobiles?” Margaret wondered.
“Families lived together. Grandparents, parents, kids—all under one roof.”
“Yes,” Margaret sighed. “When I was little, six of us in two rooms. Cramped, but never lonely.”
“D’you want me to move back in?”
“No, love. You’ve your own life. I just… get sad sometimes.”
“Invite people over! Neighbors, friends.”
“What friends? They’ve all passed or moved away. Neighbors are strangers.”
“Join a club? The library?”
“Clubs aren’t for old ladies.”
“Says who? Knitting, painting, choir—all ages welcome.”
“I can’t knit, paint, or sing.”
“You could learn. Like you’re learning the phone.”
Margaret considered it. Decades as an accountant, raising Emily, keeping house—no time for hobbies. Now, too much time, too few interests.
“Maybe,” she said. “I’ll look into it. But first—this phone.”
Emily hugged her. “Tell you what—take my old one. Big buttons, simple. I’ll keep this as a spare.”
“But you gave me this one.”
“And I’ll gift you another. Whatever helps.”
“Thank you, love. You’re so good to me.”
“I love you, Mum. I want you happy.”
“You make me happy. Even when we row about phones.”
They laughed. Emily dug out her old handset—chunky, user-friendly. Margaret cradled it like an old friend.
“This feels better,” she said. “Like it’s meant for me.”
“Perfect. Tomorrow, I’ll transferAnd as they sat together sipping tea, Margaret realized that even if she never mastered the phone, the love between them would always find a way through.
