**Diary Entry**
“Egg and chips again, Mum? I can’t stand this bloody misery anymore!” I shouted in fury.
She flinched, startled, and the spoon slipped from her trembling hands. Her gaze dropped, hiding her shame.
“It’s all we’ve got, son,” she whispered, voice barely there.
I slammed the plate onto the table. The chips scattered across the lino, a few greasy strays sticking to her cheek.
“Then eat it yourself, this slop!” I snapped and turned away.
She didn’t answer. Just knelt, shaking, and began gathering the mess from the floor—one chip at a time. As if saving what little was left… of food and dignity.
Then she walked to her room. Knelt by the bed, like she did every night.
And prayed. For me.
But I couldn’t feel her love anymore. Saw no worth in it.
Days later, I announced: “I’m leaving. Had enough of this beggar’s life. Going to London—want something better.”
She didn’t stop me. Didn’t cry.
But with a broken heart, she clutched my hand. “Just promise one thing: answer my calls. Please, son… please.”
I sighed, irritated.
Then she added, voice cracking: “I’m tired… feel my time’s running out.”
“The day I stop calling… it’ll be because I’m gone.”
I wrenched my hand free—and left. Didn’t even say goodbye properly.
—
London wasn’t what I’d dreamed. Worked everywhere: lugging crates, bouncing at clubs, mixing cement on sites.
Eating was a luxury. Money—rarer still. But every day… the phone rang.
“Hello, son… how are you?”
“Busy, Mum. Bye.”
And I’d slam it down. Sharper each time. More distant.
Until one day… it didn’t ring at all.
That silence… was louder than any words.
I stared at the screen all day.
Evening came. Thought: “She’s dead.”
Didn’t cry. Didn’t even try calling back.
Couldn’t afford the funeral. Wouldn’t have gone even if I could.
—
Days passed. Knew she was gone.
Exhausted by poverty, I took an offer:
“Simple job. Just drive,” a mate said.
The boot was packed with gear. I knew.
But wanted quick cash.
That night, I gripped the wheel, adjusted the mirror—
The phone buzzed.
Unknown number. Answered.
“Son… please, don’t do it. Turn back. Now. I’m begging you.”
Her voice. My heart lurched.
“Mum!? You’re alive!?”
“Listen. Come home. Keep yourself safe.”
Then—click.
Tried calling back.
A cold automated voice crushed my chest:
“Number not recognised.”
I stumbled out, drenched in cold sweat, breath ragged.
Sold what I could—some clothes, a pair of trainers.
Hustled for coins. Enough for a ticket back.
—
When I arrived, the street was quiet. Neighbours looked at me with pity.
“Your mum passed a month ago…”
I crumpled onto the pavement.
“Can’t be… she rang me last night!”
“Impossible. She’s long gone, son.”
Entered the house.
Still smelled like her.
The silence was unbearable.
In her room, two worn hollows in the carpet by the bed—where she’d knelt praying.
For me.
In the corner, a prayer list. My name—first. Every day.
From when I left… till the last.
Dropped to my knees.
Sobbed. Couldn’t breathe.
Stumbled to the kitchen, splashed water on my face—
Saw it.
A folded note on the table.
Not a letter.
A prayer. In her hand:
“Lord, I feel my time is near.
If I die, I can’t pray for my son anymore.
So I give him to You.
If he’s ever in danger, I beg You—warn him.
Call him at this number.”
And below… mine.
At that moment, my phone buzzed.
Notification: “Shooting on A12. Driver dead. Cargo missing.”
Photo—the same car I was meant to drive that night.
Collapsed.
Understood.
That call… came from heaven.
God heard a mother’s last prayer.
Saved a son who’d forgotten how to love.
If your mum still calls—answer.
Before it’s too late.
