**Your Number’s Forgotten**
“Mum, for goodness’ sake!” Emily flung her mobile onto the kitchen table so hard the screen flickered and went dark. “Every single day! It’s the same blasted routine!”
“Emily, love, I didn’t mean to…” Margaret clutched her ancient Nokia, its buttons worn smooth from years of use. “I just forgot again. My memory’s not what it used to be.”
“Forgot!” Emily leapt off the sofa and paced the room. “Mum, I’ve shown you a hundred times! You press the green button when it rings. Green! Not red, not blue—green!”
“I did press the green one…”
“No, Mum, you pressed red because I got the busy tone. That means you hung up on me!”
Margaret stared helplessly at her daughter, then down at the little black relic in her hands. The buttons seemed to shrink and grow under her fingers. She remembered the days when the entire household shared one rotary phone in the hall. Simpler times.
“Love, maybe I don’t need this contraption,” she murmured. “We managed fine without them before.”
“Mum!” Emily froze, looking as if she’d just been told the Queen had resigned. “What if something happens to you? What if I need to reach you? What if—”
“Alright, alright,” Margaret conceded hastily. “I’ll keep trying. Show me once more.”
Emily sat beside her, plucking the phone from her grasp. Her manicured nails—always a bit too flashy for Margaret’s taste—contrasted sharply with her mother’s speckled, knotted hands.
“Right, Mum. When it rings, the screen lights up. See? Green button on the left—that’s ‘answer.’ Red on the right—‘ignore.’ Green for go, red for stop.”
“Green for go, red for stop,” Margaret parroted obediently. “What if I mix them up?”
“You won’t,” Emily sighed. “Think of it like traffic lights. Green means ‘yes,’ red means ‘no.’”
“Ah,” Margaret nodded, though grass and blood had made more sense to her. “And how do I call *you*?”
“Mum, we’ve been over this. Tap my photo in your contacts. I’ve set it up—look, there’s my picture with ‘Emily’ underneath. One tap, and it calls me.”
Margaret squinted at the screen. The photo showed Emily grinning, youthful and radiant—nothing like the exasperated woman before her now.
“But what if I forget where your picture is?”
“It’s at the *top*, Mum! First in the list!”
“Right. And if the phone breaks?”
“It won’t,” Emily rubbed her temples. “Tell you what—I’ll write my number on the fridge. Big and bold. You can call from the landline.”
“We don’t *have* a landline. You said mobiles made them obsolete.”
“Then ask the neighbors!”
“Which neighbors?” Margaret looked bewildered. “They’re all young professionals—too busy for chats.”
“Mum—” Emily flopped onto the sofa, face in her hands. “I ring every day, and you don’t pick up. I panic, rush over, and find you perfectly fine—just pressing the wrong button!”
“I’m sorry, darling. I never mean to worry you.”
“I know. But you do.”
Margaret studied her hands—the same ones that once cooked Sunday roasts, scrubbed stains, and cradled a tiny Emily. Now they trembled over a device smaller than a biscuit tin.
“D’you remember,” she said suddenly, “your pink toy phone? The one with giant buttons? You’d ‘ring’ Grandma for hours.”
Emily softened. “Taught me my numbers.”
“Well, now *I’m* the one learning numbers,” Margaret gave a wry smile. “How the tables turn.”
With a sigh, Emily scooted closer. “Let’s try again. Slowly. I’ll call now—you answer. Deal?”
Margaret nodded. Emily dialled, and the Nokia buzzed to life, her face flashing onscreen.
“See? I’m calling. Now press green—*this* one.”
Margaret eyed the buttons. She *knew* green was correct. Yet her finger hovered toward red.
“Not that one!” Emily grabbed her wrist. “*Green!*”
“Right, yes—sorry.”
A click, a beep—and suddenly Emily’s voice chirped from both the phone and the sofa. “Hello? Mum, can you hear me?”
“I can! It worked!” Margaret beamed.
“Brilliant!” Emily ended the call. “See? Easy. Now, again.”
They drilled for half an hour. Margaret nailed it seven out of ten tries—though red still lured her like a siren.
“Why do you keep pressing red?” Emily frowned.
“It’s… bigger. Or brighter. My finger just *goes* there.”
“Maybe we should switch phones. Get you one with huge buttons—easier to—”
“No!” Margaret cut in. “You gave me this one. I’ll get the hang of it.”
Emily kissed her cheek. “We’ll practise tomorrow. I’m off to work.”
After she left, Margaret stared at the silent phone. She practised calling—*beep, beep*—then panicked and hung up. By evening, she could dial … but answering? Still a coin toss.
Next day, Emily stormed in. “Fifteen missed calls, Mum! Fifteen! I nearly left a meeting!”
“I was practising,” Margaret admitted sheepishly.
“You don’t need to *actually* ring! Just pretend!”
“But how else will I know I’ve done it right?”
“Long tone—correct. Short tones—wrong.”
Margaret fiddled with the Nokia. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Emily’s annoyance melted. She sank onto the sofa. “I call daily, Mum. But I can’t be here *always*.”
“I know, love. I just… get scared.”
“Of what?”
“Everything. Losing the phone. Falling ill. Forgetting your number.”
“Mum—your contacts are saved. Your purse, the fridge, my number’s *everywhere*.”
Margaret nodded, unconvinced. She used to know every number by heart—neighbours, the GP, Emily’s school. Now she struggled with her own.
“Numbers were shorter in my day,” she muttered. “Five digits, tops. Now it’s a maths exam!”
“You don’t *need* to memorise them, Mum. That’s what phones are for.”
“But what if I forget *how* to use it?”
“You won’t.”
“I will. I forgot Mrs. Thompson’s name yesterday—lives below us for twenty years! And my glasses? Perched on my head the whole time I searched.”
“That’s *normal*,” Emily laughed. “Last week, I left my shopping list at home. Stood in Tesco like a lost lamb.”
“You’re young. I’m just… old.”
“Age is just a number, Mum. My friend’s gran is seventy-five and posts cat memes on Facebook.”
“She must be clever.”
“So are you. You’ll get there.”
Margaret studied her daughter—her father’s strong jaw, but her own gentle patience shining through.
“Alright,” she relented. “One more go. But no huffing if I muck it up.”
They drilled again. Calls, answers. Then texts—abandoned after Margaret typed ‘HELLO’ in all caps, followed by seven accidental emojis.
“Stick to calls for now,” Emily grinned.
Margaret chuckled. “How *did* we survive without these things?”
“Families lived together then. Grannies, grandkids—all under one roof.”
Margaret sighed. “We were crammed like sardines, but never lonely.”
“Want to move in?” Emily teased.
“Don’t be daft. You’ve your own life. I just miss… *company*.”
“Join a club! The library does knitting circles—”
“Me? Knit? I’d tangle the wool into a bird’s nest!”
“Then baking! Or—oh! That senior choir that murders ABBA hits!”
Margaret snorted. “I’ll stick to mastering this gadget first.”
Emily hugged her. “Tell you what—take my old phone. Big buttons, simple screen. This one’s too fiddly.”
“But you gave me this!”
“And I’ll gift you another. Whatever helps.”
Margaret cupped the chunky replacement. It felt… friendlier. “This’ll do nicely.”
“Brilliant. Tomorrow, I’ll transfer your contacts.”
Over tea and Victoria sponge (Emily’s favourite since childhood), they chatted—work, weather, telly dramas. The new phone waited patiently on the sideboard, ready for its second act.
And though Margaret’s fingers still fumbled, one thing needed no buttons, no screens: the quiet understanding between a mother and daughter, weathering life’s glitches together.
