“It’ll be alright, son…”
A quiet voice came through the phone: “Barry, love, it’s Mum.”
Barry always found it irritating when his mother announced it was her calling, as if he wouldn’t recognise her voice. He’d told her countless times that caller ID showed her name, so of course he knew who it was.
Mum still used an old button phone. He’d bought her a modern one, packed with features, but she refused.
“I’m too old for all that newfangled gadgetry. Give it to… Linda next door. Her daughter never gets her nice things. She’d be thrilled.”
Linda was thrilled. She took to the phone straight away. Barry hadn’t given it to her out of kindness—he had an ulterior motive. If anything happened to his mother, Linda would call him straight away. He’d even programmed his number into her contacts.
“Mum, I know it’s you,” Barry said, smiling. “Everything alright?”
“Love, I’m in hospital.”
A chill ran down his spine.
“What happened? Your heart? Blood pressure?” he pressed.
“They’re operating tomorrow. My hernia’s flared up. Can’t take the pain anymore.”
“Why didn’t you call sooner? I’ll come tomorrow—I’ll take you to the city. The hospitals are better, the surgeons are brilliant. Please, Mum, don’t go through with it here.”
“Don’t fret, love. Remember Dr. Harrison? He’s very good…”
“Mum, listen—I’ll be there first thing tomorrow. Don’t let them operate before then.” He was almost shouting now. Her voice had grown faint.
“Don’t worry. It’ll be alright, love. I love you…”
A dial tone cut her off.
Barry checked the screen. The numbers glowed against the dark background—10 minutes past midnight.
Her last words had sounded muffled, distant. She never called this late. Something was wrong. He dialled her number again. No answer. Again and again—nothing.
He pushed back from his desk and looked out the window. The sleet had been falling for two days straight. The trip to the village usually took five hours in good weather, but tonight? Six, at least. He had to leave now—no speeding, but he had to make it before the operation. Who knew when they’d start? The roads to the village would be a muddy mess. But he wasn’t heading to the village—just the hospital in the nearest town.
He shut down his computer and threw some things together. At the door, he realised he’d forgotten his phone charger. He turned back, grabbed it, and paused at the hallway mirror. *If you forget something and go back inside, look at yourself in the mirror before leaving*, his mother had always said. His reflection stared back—tired eyes, tense jaw. *She said it’d be alright. She never lied to me.*
In the car, he hesitated. Should he call Linda? She and Mum were neighbours, thick as thieves. But he was a night owl—village folk went to bed early. Why hadn’t Linda called? He’d warned her. The worry gnawed at him again. The engine warmed up, and he pulled out.
How many times had he begged her to move in with him? His flat was big enough. But she always refused. “You’re young, love. I’d just be in the way. I’m happy here. Not going anywhere.”
Oh, Mum. Why didn’t you call sooner? Always so careful not to be a bother.
The conversation replayed in his head. Only now did he realise what had unsettled him—her voice. Strangely quiet, guilty-sounding. As if speaking through a barrier. And those last words—barely audible. Probably thought she’d woken him. She never called this late.
The hernia had troubled her for years, aching in bad weather. But she’d always put off surgery. The garden needed planting. Then harvesting. Then Linda caught a cold—couldn’t leave her. Always an excuse.
And him? Only a few hours away, with a car, yet he never found the time. Always an excuse for that, too.
He remembered her as warm and kind. But cross her, and she wouldn’t hold back—a clip round the ear if deserved. He never minded when it was fair. Rare enough that he remembered each time.
When he’d stumbled home at dawn at sixteen, bleary-eyed from kisses, she’d been waiting. Stared him down hard before speaking.
“In a hurry, are you? What happens when it’s time to settle down? Ready for that? You’ll howl like a wolf then. Go to bed—I don’t want to look at you.” She’d turned away.
The next day, she wouldn’t glance at him. Worse than any shouting. Later, when she’d cooled off, he’d asked:
“What’s got into you? Everyone stays out. Didn’t you?”
So she told him. How she’d fallen in love at seventeen. Nights sweet with birdsong. Then a pregnancy. The boy bolted. Her shame was saved by Barry’s father. *It was me*, he’d said. A wedding was set. But weeks before, among the potato rows, she’d miscarried. His father married her anyway. Barry came eight years later.
The road was dark, monotonous, hardly any traffic. His eyelids drooped. Twice, he nearly crashed. The first time, he jerked awake—some unseen nudge—and found himself on the wrong side of the road. Empty, thank God. The second, he almost veered into a ditch. No idea how he’d swerved in time. He cranked up the radio, howling along to stay awake.
The hospital was an old brick building, two storeys, just a few windows lit. Three doctors worked there: a GP, a surgeon, and an assistant. Serious cases went to the city. Minor surgeries stayed local.
Barry buzzed the door. He’d expected a wait, but it opened quickly—just past half six. A nurse eyed him.
“Help you? Reception starts at eight.”
“I’m here for my mother. She’s scheduled for surgery today. Janet White.”
The nurse studied him before stepping aside.
“Come in. Wait here.” She locked the door behind her.
The room was small, walls half-painted. A bare desk, a chair, a couch covered in stained brown plastic. Bleak.
Ten minutes later, the doctor entered. Barry recognised him—the same one from when he was ten, doubled over with stomach pain. Appendicitis, Mum had feared. The doctor had prodded his belly.
“Needs the loo. Could try an enema.”
Barry had panicked. Mum brewed some herbal remedy instead. Three hours later, he was empty.
“Dr. Harrison?” Barry asked.
“Here’s the thing,” the doctor said, ignoring the question. “Janet White passed yesterday.”
“What? The surgery was today. She *called* me—”
“We operated yesterday morning. Too late, I’m afraid. She died in the evening.”
“But—she rang me at half eleven last night! Said the op was *today*! I drove all night to stop it—” He trailed off, pulled out his phone. No calls from Mum. Had he dreamed it?
“Nurse, fetch Mrs. White’s belongings.” The doctor watched him carefully. “Are you alright?”
“There was a call. I’m not mad. She said—” He sank onto the couch, face in his hands.
His phone buzzed—Linda. He couldn’t face her. Not now. He declined the call.
“Can I see her?” he rasped.
Dr. Harrison shook his head.
“She’s in the morgue. I wouldn’t. Arrange the funeral. Village burial? Cheaper than the city. Funeral home’s down the road. Excuse me.”
Outside, the sky hung low and grey, but the rain had stopped. He drove to the village, puzzling over how she could’ve called. He’d heard stories like this—never believed them. Had the doctor messed up? Had he imagined it? No—he’d been awake, working. Never slept early. Some kind of… ghost call?
Linda spotted his car from her window. She ran out, arms wide, hugging him, sobbing into his coat, bony fingers clutching his sleeves.
“Oh, Barry, finally. Forgive me. I begged her to call an ambulance. Stubborn as a mule. ‘It’ll pass.’ When she couldn’t walk, old Tom drove her. Said she moaned the whole way. Roads here—you know. Straight to surgery. I didn’t go—no room in the cab. Forgive me, Barry—”
He led her inside.
“She wouldn’t let me call. ‘No need to fuss.’ Last night, I sent Tom to check. He told me she’d… gone.”
“Don’t blame yourself. I’m just as bad. When did I last visit? Work. Always work.”
“Come to mine**One sentence to finish the story:**
*Years later, holding his little daughter’s hand as she placed flowers on her grandmother’s grave, Barry finally understood—love never truly says goodbye.*
