**Diary Entry**
*It’ll be alright, son…*
That’s what she always said.
“Eddie, love, it’s Mum,” came the quiet voice on the phone. Edward hated when she announced herself like that, as if he wouldn’t recognise her voice. He’d explained a hundred times—her name popped up when she called.
She still used an old brick of a mobile. He’d bought her a modern one, but she refused. “Too old for new tricks,” she’d said. “Give it to Marjorie instead. Her daughter never buys her nice things.”
So Marjorie got the phone, learned it quick. Edward gave it to her for a reason—if anything happened to Mum, she’d call him straight away. He’d saved his number in it himself.
“Mum, I know it’s you,” Edward chuckled. “Everything alright?”
“Love, I’m in hospital.”
The words sent ice down his spine.
“What happened? Your heart? Blood pressure?”
“Operation tomorrow. Hernia’s flared up. Can’t stand the pain anymore.”
“Why didn’t you call sooner? I’ll drive up first thing—bring you back to London. Better hospitals here, better surgeons. Mum, please, don’t let them operate yet,” he begged.
“Don’t fret, son. Remember Dr. Phillips? He’s very good—”
“Listen to me. I’ll be there by morning,” Edward cut in, voice rising as hers faded. “Don’t let them do a thing till I get there.”
“It’s alright. It’ll be alright, son. I love you—” The line went dead.
Edward checked the screen. Midnight and ten minutes.
Her last words had sounded muffled, distant. She never called this late. Something was wrong. He dialled back—no answer. Again and again. Nothing.
He pushed back from his desk and looked outside. Snow and rain for two days straight. Five hours to her village in good weather, six in this mess. He had to leave now. The roads to the clinic would be a nightmare, but he wasn’t headed to the village—just the county hospital.
He packed in a daze. Halfway out the door, he remembered his phone charger. Doubled back, grabbed it. *“If you forget something and turn back, look in the mirror before leaving,”* Mum always said. His reflection stared back—tired eyes, tight jaw. *“She said it’ll be alright. She never lied to me.”*
The car’s heater fought the cold as he tore out of the drive. Should he call Marjorie? She and Mum were neighbours, friends for decades. But village folks went to bed early. Why hadn’t *she* called? He’d warned her to. The worry gnawed at him.
How many times had he begged Mum to move in with him? Plenty of room. *“You’re young, love. I’d just be in the way. I’m happy where I am.”*
Ah, Mum. Why didn’t you call sooner? Never wanted to be a bother.
The more he replayed the call, the stranger it seemed. Her voice—hollow, guilty. Apologetic for waking him. She *never* called this late.
That hernia had plagued her for years. Always an excuse not to treat it—planting season, harvest, Marjorie catching flu. And him? Only a few hours away, yet always “too busy.” Pathetic.
He remembered her kindness, her temper too. Never unfair, though. At sixteen, when he’d stumbled home at dawn, drunk on first love, she’d waited up. Fixed him with a look sharp enough to cut. *“Where’s the rush? Think you’re ready for marriage? Go to bed. I don’t want to see your face.”* The silent treatment the next day was worse than any shout.
Eventually, she told him why. At seventeen, she’d been just as lovesick—until the bloke bolted when she fell pregnant. His father stepped up, claimed the child, married her. Lost the baby picking potatoes before the wedding. Still stayed. Edward came eight years later.
Dark roads, few cars. His eyelids drooped. Twice, he nearly crashed—once swerving into oncoming traffic, another time skidding toward a ditch. He cranked the radio, screamed along to stay awake.
The hospital—an ageing brick building—had a handful of lit windows. Three doctors serviced the whole place. Serious cases got shipped to the city.
He buzzed the door. To his surprise, it opened quickly despite the early hour. A nurse eyed him, unimpressed. “Reception starts at eight. You’re not local.”
“My mother’s here—Margaret Hayes. Surgery was scheduled for today.”
The nurse stared, then sighed. “Wait here.”
The room was bleak—peeling paint, a stained gurney. Ten minutes later, a doctor entered. Edward recognised him—same man who’d treated his childhood stomach ache.
“Dr. Phillips?”
The man hesitated. “Margaret Hayes passed yesterday.”
“What? Her operation was *today*. She *called* me—”
“We operated yesterday morning. Too late, I’m afraid. She died by evening.”
Edward’s hands shook. He checked his phone. No call logged. Had he dreamed it?
“Nurse, fetch Mrs. Hayes’ belongings.” Dr. Phillips touched his shoulder. “You alright?”
Edward sat heavily. Then his phone rang—Marjorie. He declined.
“Can I see her?”
“She’s in the morgue. Better remember her as she was. Sort the funeral—village burial’s cheaper. The undertaker’s down the road.”
Outside, the rain had stopped. Grey sky pressed low. He drove to the village in a daze. How had she called? He’d heard of such things but never believed. A dream? No—he’d been wide awake.
Marjorie rushed out when she saw his car, sobbing into his coat. “Eddie, finally! Forgive me—I begged her to call an ambulance! Stubborn as a mule. Only let Fred drive her when she couldn’t walk. Moaned the whole way—roads shook her something awful. Straight to surgery. Oh, Eddie…”
He led her inside. “She didn’t want you to call me?”
“Said not to fuss. Fred checked on her last night, told me she’d gone. I couldn’t bring myself to ring you…”
“Don’t blame yourself. I’m just as guilty.”
The house was cold. A dent in the pillow where she’d last lain. He collapsed onto her bed and wept.
Later, he lit the fireplace. Found a pot of porridge in the oven—still good. Ate it cold, tears dripping in.
Marjorie returned at dusk with a bundle. “Your mum kept this ready—new dress, shoes, everything. We all do. Death comes for us all.” She crossed herself. “Make sure they put her cross on.”
Edward pulled a tin crucifix from his pocket.
“Ah, they gave it to you. Best you do it then.” She paused. “You’ll take her tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Buried here, next to your dad? I’ll tell the women. Don’t worry about the wake—we’ll handle it.” She turned to leave, then froze. “Wait—how’d you know? I never called.”
“She did. Said the op was tomorrow. Made me race here.”
Marjorie paled. “Lord have mercy…” Her hand fluttered to her chest. “But—Fred said she forgot her phone!” She yanked open a drawer. “Here it is!”
Edward stared. No outgoing calls. Just his from a week prior.
“She called you from *beyond*,” Marjorie whispered.
That explained the oddness—the distant, guilty tone. *“It’ll be alright.”* A farewell.
He broke down. Marjorie patted his back.
“I need to be alone.”
After she left, he flipped through an old photo album. Mum smiling, young, vibrant. Pictures with Dad. Him as a boy…
That night, he dreamed of her. *“It’s alright, love. Glad you came.”*
He woke with a start. No more sleep came. Only regret.
The village buried its secrets poorly. Years ago, Dad worked winters building a neighbour’s house—always came home. Then, suddenly, he didn’t.
Marjorie had dropped hints. *“Your Tom’s staying out again. Men get ideas…”*
Mum shut her down. Later, Dad stopped going. Two years after, he dropped dead in the potato patch.
Mum never held it against him. *“She forgave him. She’ll forgive me too.”* Exhaustion finally pulled Edward under.
At the hospital, Mum lay peaceful in the coffin.
“Like she’s sleeping,” Marjorie sniffed.
Edward said nothing. Dry-eyed now.
Villagers filed past the coffin. The men followed to the graveside; the women stayed to prepare the wake.
They spoke of Mum’s kindness—things he neverAnd as the years passed, Edward often found himself whispering to the empty chair by the fireplace, “It’ll be alright, Mum,” before realising, with a quiet ache, that she’d been right all along.
