—Egg and chips again, Mum? I can’t stand this miserable life anymore!—he shouted, his voice thick with rage.
She flinched, startled. The spoon slipped from her trembling fingers. Eyes downcast, she tried to hide her shame.
—It’s all we have, son…— she whispered, her voice frail.
The boy slammed his plate onto the table. Scattered bits of potato skittered across the floor. A few clung to his mother’s cheek.
—Then eat it yourself, this slop!— he spat, turning away.
She said nothing.
On her knees, shaking, she began gathering the fallen scraps—one by one. As if salvaging what little remained… of food, of dignity.
Then she retreated to her room. Knelt beside the bed, as she did every night.
And prayed. For him.
But the son no longer felt her love. Saw no worth in her.
Days later, he announced:
—I’m leaving. Had enough of this beggar’s life. Off to the city—I want more.
She didn’t stop him. Didn’t cry.
But with a broken heart, she grasped his hand and pleaded:
—Just promise me one thing—answer when I call. I beg you, son… I beg you.
He sighed, irritated.
Then she added, voice cracking:
—I’m tired… I feel my time is slipping.
The day I stop calling… it’ll mean I’m gone.
He yanked his hand from her grip—and left. Didn’t even say goodbye.
⸻
The city was nothing like his dreams.
He worked everywhere—hauling crates, guarding nightclubs, mixing mortar on building sites.
Eating was a luxury. Money—even scarcer.
Yet every day… the phone rang.
—Hello, son… how are you?
—Busy, Mum. Bye.
He slammed the receiver down. Harsher each time. More distant.
Until one day… it never rang at all.
And the silence… was louder than any words.
He stared at the screen all day.
Evening fell.
He thought:
—She’s dead.
He didn’t cry. Didn’t try to call back.
Didn’t even plan to go to the funeral.
No money—but even if he had it, he wouldn’t.
⸻
Days passed. He knew—she was gone.
Exhausted by poverty, he took a job offer:
—Easy work. Just drive—said a mate.
The car was packed with drugs. He knew.
But he wanted quick cash.
That night, he slid into the driver’s seat, adjusted the mirror, gripped the wheel…
And the phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He answered.
—Son… please, don’t do this. Don’t go.
Turn back. Now. I’m begging you.
The voice… it was hers.
His heart hammered.
—Mum!? You’re alive!?
—Listen to me. Come home. And take care.
Then—click.
He tried to call back.
But a cold automated voice crushed his chest:
—Number not recognised.
He stumbled from the car, drenched in cold sweat, breath ragged.
Sold what little he had—spare clothes, a pair of trainers.
Lived rough, scraped together just enough to return.
⸻
When he arrived, the air was still.
Neighbours looked at him with pity.
—Your mother passed a month ago…
He crumpled onto the pavement.
—Can’t be… she called me last night!
—Impossible, son. She’s long gone.
He stepped inside.
The house still smelled of her.
The silence was suffocating.
In her room, by the bed—two worn dips in the floorboards.
Where she’d knelt each night… praying for him.
In the corner, a list of prayers.
His name—first. Every day.
From the day he left… until her last.
He dropped to his knees.
Sobbed. Breathless. Choking.
Rushed to the kitchen, splashed water on his face… and saw it.
A folded note on the table.
Not a letter.
A prayer. In her handwriting:
—Lord, I feel my time ending.
If I die, I can’t pray for my son anymore.
So… I leave him to You.
If ever he’s in danger… warn him.
Call him at this number.—
And below—his phone number.
At that moment, his phone buzzed.
A notification:
—Vehicle shot up. Driver dead. Cargo missing.—
The photo—the same car he was meant to drive that night.
He collapsed.
And realised.
That call… came from heaven.
God heard a mother’s final prayer.
And saved the son who never knew how to love.
If your mum still calls you—answer.
Before it’s too late.
