**Forgotten Numbers**
“Mum, how many times do I have to explain?!” Emily tossed her phone onto the table so hard the screen flickered and went black. “It’s the same thing every single day!”
“Love, I didn’t mean to,” Margaret said softly, clutching her worn-out button phone, its numbers nearly rubbed off. “I just forgot again. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”
“Forgot!” Emily jumped 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 any other button—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 looked helplessly at her daughter, then at her phone—small, black, with buttons that seemed either too tiny or too bright. She remembered when the neighbourhood shared a single landline in the hallway, and life felt simpler.
“Love, maybe I don’t need this phone?” she murmured. “We used to manage just fine without them.”
“Mum!” Emily froze, her expression pained, as if she’d heard something devastating. “How can you say that? What if something happens to you? What if I worry?”
“Alright, alright,” Margaret conceded quickly. “I’ll keep trying. Show me again.”
Emily sat beside her, taking the phone. Her fingers were smooth, manicured—too flashy, in Margaret’s opinion. Her own hands, speckled with age and knotted with time, looked frail in comparison.
“Look, Mum. When it rings, the screen lights up. See? Here, on the left—the green button with the handset. That’s ‘answer.’ The red one is ‘decline.’ Green means yes, red means no.”
“Green yes, red no,” Margaret repeated obediently. “But what if I mix them up?”
“You won’t,” Emily sighed. “Think of green like grass—alive, good. Red is like warning signs—danger, stop.”
“I see,” Margaret nodded, though she couldn’t quite connect grass or danger to buttons. “How do I call you?”
“We’ve been over this. Tap my picture in your contacts. I’ve set it up—see? ‘Emily, my girl.’ Tap it, and it’ll call me.”
Margaret stared at the screen. There was Emily—smiling, young, lovely. Not like now, weary and frustrated.
“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. “Here, I’ll write my number on the fridge in big digits. You can call from the landline.”
“We don’t *have* a landline. You said it wasn’t necessary with a mobile.”
“Then ask a neighbour.”
“Which neighbour?” Margaret hesitated. “They’re young, busy—they don’t have 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, you just pressed the wrong button.”
“I’m sorry, darling. I never mean to upset you.”
“I know. But you do.”
Margaret studied her hands—once capable, cooking, cleaning, cradling a baby Emily. Now they fumbled with a tiny device.
“Remember,” she said suddenly, “your pink toy phone? With big buttons? You’d chat for hours, pretending to call Gran in the country.”
“I remember,” Emily lifted her head. “I learned numbers from it.”
“And now *I’m* the one learning numbers,” Margaret smiled sadly. “Funny how life turns.”
“Mum—” Emily shifted closer. “Let’s try again. Slowly. I’ll call now, and you answer. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Emily dialled. Margaret’s phone buzzed, lighting up with her daughter’s photo.
“See? I’m calling. Now press the green button—*this* one.”
Margaret hesitated. She *knew* it was green. Yet her finger edged toward red.
“No, Mum—not that one!” Emily caught her hand. “*This* one, green!”
“Right, sorry. I knew that.”
She pressed green. The line connected.
“Hello? Can you hear me?”
“Yes!” Margaret brightened. “Yes, it worked!”
“Brilliant!” Emily ended the call. “See? Easy. Let’s try again.”
They practised for half an hour. Margaret answered correctly seven out of ten times. Three times, red won.
“Why do you press red?” Emily asked. “You *know* it’s green.”
“I do. But red feels… bigger. Or brighter.”
“Maybe we should switch phones. Get one for seniors—big buttons, simple screen.”
“No,” Margaret said quickly. “This one’s fine. You gave it to me for my birthday. I just need more time.”
“Alright.” Emily kissed her cheek. “I’ve got to go. We’ll practise tomorrow.”
Margaret was left alone with the phone. She stared at the dark screen, turning it over in her hands—so small, yet so baffling.
She tried calling Emily. The dial tone startled her; she hung up, flustered. Tried again. By evening, she could *dial*, but answering still eluded her.
Next day, Emily arrived exasperated.
“Mum, you called me *fifteen* times yesterday! I thought something was wrong!”
“I was practising.”
“Practise without *actually* calling! If you hear long beeps, it’s working. Short ones mean you’ve hung up.”
“But how will I know I did it right?”
“Mum—” Emily sat beside her. “I call daily. I visit. But I can’t be here always. I’ve got work, a life.”
“I know, love. I don’t expect you to. But I get… scared.”
“Of what?”
“Everything. The phone breaking. Falling ill. Forgetting your number.”
“It’s saved ten different places. You won’t lose it.”
Margaret nodded, uneasy. She used to know every number—neighbours, doctors, Emily’s school. Now she barely recalled her own.
“Numbers used to be short,” she mused. “Five digits, six at most. Now it’s eleven—how’s anyone to remember?”
“You don’t *need* to. That’s what contacts are for.”
“But what if I forget how *they* work?”
“You won’t.”
“I *will*. Yesterday, I lost my glasses—they were on my head. The day before, I blanked on Mrs. Hodgson downstairs, and she’s lived there fifteen years!”
“That’s normal, Mum. Everyone forgets things.”
“Not you.”
“Oh, *please*,” Emily laughed. “Last week, I left the shopping list at home. Stood in the aisle, totally blank.”
“That’s different. You’re young, busy. I’m just… old.”
“Age isn’t a sentence. My friend’s gran is seventy-five—on social media, posting photos. She *taught* herself.”
“She must be clever.”
“So are you. It just takes patience.”
Margaret studied Emily—her father’s dark eyes, strong features, but with Margaret’s gentle patience.
“Alright,” she said. “Let’s try again. But don’t be cross if I muck it up.”
“I won’t. Promise.”
They drilled calls. Then texts—hopelessly harder.
“Stick to calls for now,” Emily said.
“Fine. But really—how *did* we manage without phones?”
“Families lived together. Now everyone’s scattered.”
Margaret sighed. “When I was small, we all crammed into one room. Cramped, but never lonely.”
“D’you… want to live together?”
“No, love. You’ve your own life. I just get lonely sometimes.”
“Then invite someone over! Mrs. Hodgson, maybe.”
“What would we talk about? She’s practically a stranger.”
“What about a club? Or the library?”
“Clubs aren’t for women my age.”
“Says who? There’s knitting, painting, choir—”
“I can’t knit, paint, *or* sing.”
“You could learn. Like with the phone.”
Margaret considered it. She’d spent her life as an accountant, a mother, a homemaker—never time for hobbies. Now she had time, but no hobbies to fill it.
“Maybe,” she conceded. “I’ll look into it. But first—this phone.”
Emily hugged her.
“Tell you what—take my old phone. Big buttons, simple. I’ll keep this one as a spare.”
“But *you* gave me this one.”
“And I’ll gift you another. What matters is *you* being comfortable.”
“Thank you, darling. You’reAs the weeks passed, Margaret grew more comfortable with the old phone, and though she still fumbled sometimes, she no longer feared hearing Emily’s voice on the other end.
