“Egg and chips again, Mum? I can’t stand this miserable life anymore!” he shouted in fury.
His mother flinched, startled. The spoon slipped from her trembling hands. She lowered her gaze, trying to hide her shame.
—It’s all we have, son…— she whispered weakly.
The boy slammed his plate onto the table. Chips scattered across the floor.
A few clung to his mother’s face.
—Then eat it yourself, this rubbish!— he snapped, turning away.
She said nothing.
Kneeling, shaking, she began picking up the chips—one by one.
As if salvaging what little remained… of food and dignity.
Then she retreated to her room.
Kneeling by the bed, as she did every night.
And prayed. For him.
But her son no longer felt her love.
Saw no worth in her.
Days later, he announced:
—I’m leaving. I’ve had enough of living like a beggar. Going to London—I want more.
She didn’t stop him. Didn’t cry.
But with a broken heart, she gripped his hand and said:
—Just promise me one thing: answer my calls. Please, son… please.
He sighed, irritated.
She added, voice cracking:
—I’m tired… I feel my time’s running out.
The day I stop calling… it’ll be because I’m gone.
He yanked his hand free—and left.
Not even a proper goodbye.
———
London wasn’t as he dreamed.
Worked any job: lugging crates, guarding clubs, mixing cement.
A proper meal—a luxury. Money—even scarcer.
But every day… the phone rang.
—Hello, son… how are you?
—Busy, Mum. Bye.
He slammed the receiver down. Sharper each time. More distant.
Until one day… it didn’t ring at all.
And that silence… screamed louder than words.
He stared at the screen all day.
Evening came. He thought:
—She’s dead.—
He didn’t cry.
Didn’t call back.
Didn’t even plan to attend the funeral.
Had no money. But even if he did—he wouldn’t have gone.
———
Days passed. He knew: she was gone.
Worn down, he took a shady job:
—Just drive the car— a mate said.
The boot was packed with drugs. He knew.
But he wanted quick cash.
That night, he settled behind the wheel, adjusted the mirror, gripped it…
And the phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He answered.
—Son… please, don’t do this. Turn back. Now. I beg you.
The voice… it was hers.
His heart pounded.
—Mum!? You’re alive!?
—Listen to me. Come home. Take care.
Then—silence.
He tried calling back.
But a robotic voice chilled him:
—This number does not exist.—
He stumbled out, drenched in sweat, gasping.
Sold what little he had—some clothes, spare shoes.
Saved enough for a train ticket home.
———
When he arrived, the house stood silent.
Neighbours watched him with pity.
—Your mum passed last month…
He collapsed onto the pavement.
—No… she called me yesterday!
—Impossible, son. She’s been gone weeks.
Inside, the air still smelled of her.
The quiet was crushing.
By her bed—two worn grooves in the floorboards.
Where she’d knelt nightly… praying for him.
A list of prayers in the corner.
His name—first. Every day.
From the day he left… till her last.
He dropped to his knees.
Sobbed. Breathless.
Rushed to the kitchen, splashed water on his face—and saw it.
A note, folded neatly on the table.
Not a letter.
A prayer. In her handwriting:
—Lord, I feel my time is near.
If I go, I can’t pray for my boy anymore.
So… I leave him to You.
If he’s ever in danger, I beg You—warn him.
Call him on this number.—
Below… was his mobile number.
At that moment—his phone buzzed.
A news alert:
—Car shot up in drug bust. Driver dead. Cargo missing.—
The photo showed the very car he was meant to drive.
He crumpled to the floor.
And understood.
That call… came from heaven.
God heard a mother’s final prayer.
And saved the son who forgot how to love.
If your mum still calls you—answer.
Before it’s too late.
