**Diary Entry – 5th May**
“Mum, how many times do we have to go through this?” Emily flung her phone onto the table so hard the screen flickered and went black. “Every single day! It’s always the same!”
“I’m sorry, love, I didn’t mean to…” Margaret tightened her grip around her old flip phone, the numbers nearly worn off from use. “I just forget. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”
“Forget?!” Emily jumped up from the sofa, pacing the room. “Mum, I’ve shown you a hundred times! When the phone rings, press the green button—green! Not red, not blue, green!”
“I did press the green one…”
“No, Mum, you pressed red because I heard the short beeps—that means you hung up on me!”
Margaret glanced helplessly at her daughter, then at the phone in her hands. Small, black, with buttons that always seemed either too tiny or too bright. She remembered when there was just one phone in the whole house, perched on the hallway table, shared by everyone. Things were simpler then.
“Love, maybe I don’t need this phone at all,” she murmured. “We managed fine without them before.”
“Mum!” Emily froze, her face twisted with worry. “How can you say that? What if something happens to you? What if I need to reach you?”
“Alright, alright,” Margaret conceded quickly. “I’ll keep trying. Show me again.”
Emily sat beside her, taking the phone. Her fingers were slender and manicured, while Margaret’s hands—flecked with age spots, knuckles swollen—looked ancient next to hers.
“Look, Mum. When it rings, the screen lights up. See? Green button on the left means ‘answer,’ red on the right means ‘ignore.’ Green—yes, red—no.”
“Green—yes, red—no,” Margaret repeated dutifully. “What if I mix them up?”
“You won’t,” Emily sighed. “Think of it like traffic lights—green means go, red means stop.”
Margaret nodded, though grass and blood made more sense to her than traffic lights. “And how do I call *you*?”
“Mum, we’ve been over this. Tap my picture in your contacts. See? I set it up for you—‘Emily (daughter).’ Tap it, and it’ll call me.”
Margaret squinted at the screen. There was Emily—smiling, young, nothing like the tired woman before her now.
“What if I forget where your picture is?”
“It’s at the *top*, Mum! The very first one!”
“Right. And if the phone breaks?”
“It won’t,” Emily rubbed her temples. “How about I write my number on the fridge? Big and clear. You can call from the landline.”
“I don’t *have* a landline. You said it was pointless now that I’ve got a mobile.”
“Then ask a neighbour.”
“Which neighbour?” Margaret frowned. “They’re all young, busy with work—no time for me.”
“Mum,” Emily dropped onto the sofa, covering her face. “I don’t know what to do. I call every day, and you don’t answer. 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. These hands had cooked Sunday roasts, scrubbed floors, cradled Emily as a baby. They could do anything—except work this tiny box of buttons.
“Remember,” she said suddenly, “when you were little, we bought you that toy phone? Pink, with huge buttons. You’d ‘call’ Gran for hours.”
Emily smiled. “I learned my numbers on that thing.”
“Now it’s my turn to learn numbers,” Margaret said with a sad chuckle. “Funny how things turn out.”
Emily scooted closer. “Let’s try again. Slowly. I’ll call you now, and you answer. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Emily dialled. Margaret’s phone buzzed—Emily’s photo flashed on screen.
“See, Mum? That’s me calling. Now press the green button. *This* one.”
Margaret stared. Two buttons—green and red. She *knew* which to press. Yet her finger hovered toward red.
“No, Mum—*green!*” Emily grabbed her wrist.
“Sorry, sorry. I know it’s green.”
She pressed it. A dial tone, then Emily’s voice—both in the room and through the phone.
“Hello? Mum, can you hear me?”
“I can! It worked!”
“Brilliant! See? Easy.” They practiced for half an hour. Margaret got it right seven times out of ten.
“Why do you keep pressing red?” Emily asked.
“I don’t *mean* to. It’s just… bigger. Or brighter.”
“Should we get you a different phone? One with huge buttons, made for seniors?”
“No,” Margaret said quickly. “This one’s special. You gave it to me.”
Emily kissed her cheek. “We’ll keep trying. Tomorrow.”
After she left, Margaret studied the phone. Small, light, impossibly complicated. She practised calling, but answering still failed her.
Next evening, Emily returned exasperated.
“Mum, you rang me *fifteen times* yesterday! I thought something was wrong!”
“I was practicing.”
“You don’t need to *actually call*! Just pretend!”
“But how will I know I did it right?”
Emily groaned. “Long beeps—correct. Short beeps—wrong.”
“Oh. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Emily softened. “Mum, I call every day. But I can’t be here *always*. I’ve got work, a life…”
“I know, love. I just… get scared.”
“Of what?”
“Everything. The phone breaking. Me falling ill. Forgetting your number.”
“It’s saved in ten places! Your address book, your wallet, the fridge—”
Margaret nodded, but the dread lingered. She used to know every number by heart—neighbours, doctors, Emily’s school. Now she barely recalled her own.
“Numbers were shorter in my day,” she muttered. “Five digits, six at most. Now it’s all these elevens…”
“You don’t need to memorise them, Mum. That’s what contacts are for.”
“What if I forget how to use *those*?”
“You won’t.”
“I will. I forget loads lately. Yesterday I hunted for my glasses—they were on my head! Mrs. Thompson downstairs—lived there fifteen years, and I blanked on her name.”
“That’s normal!”
“Not for you.”
Emily laughed. “Last week I left the shopping list at home. Stood in Tesco like a plank, no clue what to buy.”
“That’s different. You’re young, busy. I’m just… old.”
“Age isn’t an excuse! Auntie Mary’s seventy-six and posts grandkids’ photos online!”
“She’s clever.”
“So are you. It just takes time.”
Margaret smiled. Emily had her father’s dark eyes, but her patience was all Margaret.
“Alright,” she conceded. “Let’s try again. But don’t scold me if I muck it up.”
“I won’t.”
They drilled calls and texts (the latter proved hopeless). “Stick to calls for now,” Emily said.
“How did people manage without phones?” Margaret wondered.
“Families lived together then. Grans, parents, kids—all under one roof.”
Margaret nodded. “We all squeezed into two rooms when I was small. Cramped, but never lonely.”
“D’you… want to live together?”
“No, love. You’ve your own life. Just gets lonely sometimes.”
“Join a club! The library’s got knitting circles, book groups—”
“Knitting? I’d stab myself with the needles.”
“You could learn. Like with the phone.”
Margaret considered it. She’d been an accountant—no time for hobbies. Now she had time, but no interests.
“Maybe,” she said. “For now, let’s master this darn phone.”
Emily hugged her. “Tell you what—take my old one. Big buttons, simple screen. This fancy one’s overkill.”
“But you gave me this!”
“And I’ll give you another. Whatever helps.”
Margaret tried the older model—bulky but reassuring. “This feels right,” she said.
“Grand. Tomorrow I’ll transfer your contacts.”
They had tea and apple pie—Emily’s childhood favourite. As they talked, Margaret realised her hands still knew baking, stitching, all the old skills. Just not technology.
“Don’t fret over the phone,” Emily said. “We’ll get there.”
Margaret smiled. “Slow and steady.”
The new phone waited on the table, patient as love itself. They’d conquer it eventually—because some bonds run deeper than buttons and beeps.
**Lesson learned:** Time changes the tools, but notAnd in the end, it wasn’t about the phones at all—just two hands reaching across the years, one learning, the other teaching, both holding on.
