**Diary Entry – 12th March**
*”Everything will be alright, son…”*
That was the first thing I heard when I picked up the call. A quiet voice on the other end—Mum.
“Albert, love, it’s me,” she said, as if I wouldn’t recognise her. It always bothered me, the way she announced herself. As if the screen didn’t flash *Margaret Greene* the second she rang. I’d bought her a smartphone last Christmas, but she refused it outright.
“I’m too old for these newfangled things,” she’d said. “Give it to Dorothy next door. She’d appreciate it more.”
She was right—Dorothy took to it like a duck to water. But really, I’d given it to her for a reason: if anything happened to Mum, Dorothy would ring me straightaway. And I’d made sure my number was saved in the contacts.
“Mum, I *know* it’s you,” I said, forcing a laugh. “Everything alright?”
“Love, I’m in hospital.”
The words sent a chill down my spine.
“What happened? Your heart? Blood pressure?” I fired off questions, my voice tight.
“They’re operating tomorrow. The hernia’s flared up. Can’t bear it anymore.”
“Why didn’t you call earlier? I’ll come first thing, fetch you, bring you to London. The hospitals here are better—surgeons, everything. Mum, *please*, don’t let them do it yet—”
“Don’t fret, love. Remember Dr. Hayes? He’s very good—”
“Mum, *listen*—I’ll be there by morning. Don’t let them operate till then!” I was shouting now. Her voice had faded, barely a whisper.
“Don’t worry. Everything will be alright, son. I love you…”
Then—silence. The line went dead.
I checked the screen. 12:10 AM.
Mum *never* called this late. Something was wrong. I rang back—no answer. Again and again—nothing.
I pushed away from my desk and stared out the window. A sleety rain had been falling for two days straight. In good weather, the drive to her village took five hours. Tonight? Six, at least. I had to leave now—no speeding, but I had to get there before they took her into surgery. Who knew when they’d start? The backroads would be a mess, but I wasn’t heading to the village—just the hospital in the nearest town.
I shut down the computer and packed in a daze. Halfway out the door, I remembered the phone charger. Turned back, snatched it, then paused in the hallway. *”If you forget something and have to go back, always check the mirror before leaving,”* Mum used to say. I caught my reflection—tired, drawn, eyes shadowed with worry. *”She said everything would be alright. She never lied to me.”*
I left.
In the car, I debated calling Dorothy. She and Mum were neighbours, friends for decades. But then, *she* hadn’t rung. I’d warned her, hadn’t I? The fear coiled tighter. The engine warmed, and I pulled out.
How many times had I begged Mum to move in with me? The flat was big enough. But she always refused. *”You’ve got your life, love. I’d just be in the way. I’m happy where I am.”*
God, Mum. If only you’d called sooner. Always afraid to be a bother.
The more I replayed the call, the more unsettled I felt. There was something off about her voice—hollow, distant, like she was speaking through a barrier. And the last words? Barely audible. Guilty, too. Probably thought she’d woken me. She’d *never* called that late.
The hernia had been there for years, acting up in bad weather. But she’d put off surgery. The garden needed planting. The harvest wouldn’t wait. Dorothy had the flu—she couldn’t leave her. Always an excuse.
And *me*? I lived close enough. Had a car. But there was always *something*—work, deadlines, excuses of my own.
I remembered Mum as kind. Gentle. But she could scold when needed, even give me a clip round the ear if I deserved it. Which I had, often enough.
When I was sixteen, I came home at dawn once, lips still buzzing from stolen kisses. She’d waited up. Took one look at me—flushed, rumpled—and said coldly, *”What’s the hurry? Think you’re ready for marriage? You’ll howl like a wolf when it comes to it. Go to bed. I don’t want to look at you.”*
The silent treatment the next day was worse than any shouting. When she finally softened, I’d asked, *”Why the lecture? Everyone stays out late. Didn’t you?”*
And she told me—how she’d fallen in love at seventeen. Stolen nights under the stars. Then she got pregnant, and the boy bolted. My father stepped in, shouldered the shame, married her. But she lost the baby in the potato fields, long before I came along eight years later.
The drive was pitch-black, hypnotic. Twice I nearly veered off the road—once into oncoming traffic (thank God it was empty), once into a ditch. Blaring the radio, singing along at the top of my lungs, I fought sleep the whole way.
The hospital was an old brick building, only a few dim lights on. Three doctors worked there—a GP, a surgeon, and his assistant. Anything serious got shipped to the city.
I knocked. Expected a wait, but the door opened quickly for 6:30 AM. A nurse eyed me, then the empty space behind me.
“Can I help you? Clinic starts at eight,” she said flatly.
“My mother. She’s meant to have surgery today. Margaret Greene.”
The nurse studied me for a long moment.
“Come in. Wait here.” She locked the door behind me and disappeared.
The room was bleak—a scratched desk, a chair, a narrow cot with a stained plastic cover. Ten minutes later, Dr. Hayes walked in. I recognised him—same man who’d examined me as a kid when I’d had stomach pains. He’d ordered a laxative, but Mum had brewed some herbal tea instead.
“Dr. Hayes?”
He didn’t answer. “About your mother… Margaret Greene passed away yesterday.”
“*What?* The surgery was scheduled for *today*. She rang me, *said*—”
“Operated yesterday morning. But… it was too late. She died in the evening.”
“That’s impossible. She called me at *midnight*. Said the operation was *today*!” My hands shook as I pulled out my phone—no missed calls from her. Had I dreamed it?
“Nurse, fetch Mrs. Greene’s belongings,” Hayes said softly. “Are you alright?”
“I… I heard her. She said—” I sank onto the cot, face in my hands.
Then my phone rang. Dorothy. I ignored it.
“Can I see her?” My voice was raw.
Hayes shook his head. “She’s in the morgue. Best not. You’ll need to arrange the funeral. Burying her in the village? Cheaper than transporting her. Funeral home’s down the street. I’m sorry.”
Outside, the rain had stopped, but the sky was heavy. I drove to Mum’s village numb, replaying the call. How? *How* had she phoned me? I’d heard of things like this—but never believed them.
Dorothy saw my car, rushed out, clutched at me, sobbing. *”Albert, finally. I’m so sorry. I begged her to call an ambulance, but she refused. Stubborn as ever. Said it would pass. By the time she couldn’t stand, Tom drove her. Said she moaned the whole way—roads here are terrible. They took her straight to surgery. I didn’t go. No room in the cab. Forgive me, Albert—”*
I led her inside.
“She made me promise not to call you. Said not to fuss. Last night, Tom checked on her, came back… said she’d gone. I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“Not your fault,” I muttered.
“Come to mine. The house is freezing,” she offered.
“No. I need to be here.”
Alone, I looked around. Neat, except for the rumpled rug by the bed. I smoothed it, then collapsed onto the sheets and wept.
I woke shivering. Lit the stove, found a pot of cold porridge in the oven. Ate it straight from the dish, tears mixing with the food.
Dorothy returned that evening with a bundle. *”Margaret kept this ready. A dress, slippers, a scarf. We all do. All under God’s eye,”* she said, crossing herself. *”Ask them to put her cross on. They might forget.”*
I fishedI placed the cross gently in her hands at the funeral, whispered my goodbye, and knew—somewhere—she was smiling.
