Left All Alone

Outside, twilight deepened, yet Mum still wasn’t home. Abigail, spinning the wheels on her chair, manoeuvred herself to the table, grabbed the mobile, and dialled Mum’s number.
“The number you have dialled is unavailable or out of reach,” announced the impersonal voice.
The child stared helplessly at the phone, then remembered its quickly draining credit and switched it off.
Mum had popped to the shops and vanished. She never stayed out long; Abigail depended on her wheelchair since childhood, and Mum was her only family.
Seven now, Abigail wasn’t scared alone, but Mum always said where she went and when she’d return. The girl couldn’t fathom the delay:
“She went to the cheaper supermarket further out, but it’s not far. We always go together. An hour there and back, tops,” she glanced at the clock. “It’s been four hours. I’m hungry.”
She wheeled into the kitchen. Boiled the kettle, got a sausage roll from the fridge. Ate it, washed down with tea.
Still no Mum. Unable to wait, she snatched the phone again.
“The number you have dialled is unavailable or out of reach,” the recorded voice repeated.
She shifted onto her bed, tucking the phone under her pillow. She left the light on; darkness felt terrifying without Mum.
She lay awake a long while, but sleep finally came.
***
Sunlight streamed through the window when she woke. Mum’s bed was neatly made.
“Mum!” she called towards the hall.
Silence answered. She grabbed the phone, dialled. The same cold, metallic voice responded.
Fear gripped her; tears welled up.
***
Ben was walking back from the cafe. He fetched fresh pastries there every morning for breakfast; Mum cooked while he went out.
Thirty and still single, Ben felt overlooked – too thin, plain, often unwell. Illnesses had plagued him since birth. Expensive treatments were needed, but Mum raised him alone. The final diagnosis in adulthood declaring him infertile sealed his fate: he accepted he’d never marry.
A sparkle caught his eye in the grass – a shattered mobile. Phones and computers were both his passion and his job as a programmer and tech reviewer. He owned the latest gadgets, but professional curiosity made him pick it up. It looked crushed, like a car had run it over.
“Might mean trouble?” he thought, pocketing the broken device. “I’ll look at home.”
***
After breakfast, he extracted the SIM card and inserted it into one of his spare phones. The SIM showed mostly calls to the NHS helpline, the pension service, and similar, but the first contact read ‘Poppet’.
Hesitating only briefly, he called the number.
“Mum!” bubbled a delighted child’s voice.
“I’m… not your Mum,” Ben stammered.
“Where’s Mummy?”
“Not sure. I found this broken phone, put its SIM in mine, and called you.”
“My Mummy’s missing,” sobbed the voice. “She went to the shops yesterday and never came back.”
“Where’s your dad? Grandma?”
“Haven’t got any. Only Mummy.”
“What’s your name?” Ben realized this needed action.
“Abigail.”
“I’m Uncle Ben. Abby, quickly, go tell your neighbours you’re alone.”
“I can’t go out; my legs don’t work. And next door’s empty.”
“Wait, what do you mean, don’t work?” Ben was utterly bewildered.
“Born like it. Mummy says we need to save up for an operation.”
“How do you get around?”
“In my wheelchair.”
“Abby, do you know your address?” Ben pressed gently.
“Yes. Seven Tudor Lane, flat eighteen.”
“I’m coming over now. We’ll find your Mum.” He disconnected.
Evelyn stepped into her son’s room. “Ben, what’s happened?”
“Mum, I found a broken phone. Put its SIM in mine. Called. There’s a little girl, alone in her flat, uses a wheelchair. No other family. Got her address. I’m going.”
“Then I’m coming too,” Evelyn declared, reaching for her coat. A pensioner now, she well understood the struggles of a single mother with a sick child. Her son earned plenty.
They hailed a taxi to help the child.
***
They buzzed the entry system.
“Who is it?” a small, sad voice enquired.
“Abby, it’s Ben.”
“Come up!”
The communal door clicked. The block of flats door was slightly ajar.
They walked in. A thin girl in a wheelchair watched them with large, anxious eyes.
“Will you find my Mummy?”
“What’s your Mum’s name?” Ben asked quickly.
“Eleanor.”
“Surname?”
“Archer.”
“Hold on, Ben!” Evelyn interrupted, turning to the girl. “Abby, are you hungry?”
“Yes. There was a sausage roll in the fridge, but I ate it yesterday.”
“Right. Ben, dash to our usual shop, you know what to get.”
“On it!” he replied, hurrying out.
***
He returned bearing bags. His mother had already started cooking. She unpacked swiftly and laid the small table.
After eating, Ben focused on finding the girl’s mother.
He checked the local news site for incidents the previous day.
“Right, right. On Park Avenue, driver of a Ford Focus struck a female pedestrian. Victim sustained serious injuries, taken to hospital.”
He grabbed his mobile, dialled the hospital. After holding, someone answered.
“Yes, we admitted a pedestrian casualty from Park Avenue yesterday. Serious condition. Still unconscious.”
“What’s her name?”
“No identification or mobile found. Are you family?”
“Er… not sure yet…”
“Come to St Mary’s…”
“I know it. On my way.”
He hung up and approached Abby. “Got a photo of your Mum?”
“Yes!” She wheeled to a cabinet and opened an album. “Here we are, taken recently.”
“Your Mum’s lovely!”
Ben took a photo of the picture with his phone, smiling at Abby. “Off to find your Mum, then.”
***
Her eyes opened. White ceiling. Awareness returned slowly. Flashes: headlights… a screech…
She tried to move; pain spread instantly through her battered body. A nurse approached softly.
“Awake?”
Suddenly, Eleanor’s eyes widened in terror. “How long?”
“Two days.”
“My daughter! Alone at home!”
“Eleanor, easy!” The nurse placed a calming hand on her arm. “A young man visited yesterday. Left his phone for you. Said yours was crushed.”
“I need to call…”
“Here!” The nurse tapped the contact labelled ‘Poppet’, holding the phone to Eleanor’s ear.
“Mummy!”
“Abby! My darling! Are you alright?”
“Fine! Gran Evelyn and Uncle Ben are here with me.”
“Uncle Ben?”
“Madam, please stay calm!” The entering doctor
Outside the window, dusk deepened, and still Mum hadn’t returned. Emily, spinning the wheels of her wheelchair, rolled to the table, grabbed her mobile, and dialled Mum’s number.
*”The subscriber you have their phone switched off or is out of network coverage,”* intoned an unfamiliar voice.
The girl stared blankly at the phone, then remembered it had little credit left and turned it off.
Mum had gone to the shops and hadn’t come back. This never happened; she never stayed out long, especially since her daughter had used a wheelchair since childhood and had no close family besides her.
At seven years old, Emily wasn’t frightened of being alone, but Mum always said where she was going and when she’d return. The girl couldn’t understand what was wrong: *”Today she went to the larger supermarket further away where things are cheaper. We often go together. It isn’t really that far, only about twenty minutes each way,”* she glanced at the clock. *”Four hours have passed. I’m hungry.”*
She steered her chair towards the kitchen. Boiled the kettle, retrieved a meat patty from the fridge. Ate it, drank some tea.
Still, no sign of Mum. Unable to resist, she grabbed the mobile again.
*”The subscriber you have their phone switched off or is out of network coverage,”* the automated voice repeated.
She transferred herself onto her bed, tucking the phone under her pillow. Left the light on too; it felt too scary without Mum.
Lay awake a long time but eventually slept.
***
She woke when sunlight streamed through the window. Mum’s bed was neatly made.
“Mum!” she called towards the hallway.
Silence answered. Picking up the phone, she called once more. The same flat, metallic voice replied.
Fear gripped her, tears spilling down her cheeks.
***
Constantine was returning from the bakery that sold fresh pastries each morning. It was their ritual: he fetched the buns while his mother cooked breakfast.
At thirty, Constantine was still single. Women seemed to look straight through him; thin and plagued by health issues since birth. Expensive treatments were needed, but his mother Nina raised him alone. The final diagnosis in adulthood confirmed he could never have children. He’d made peace with likely never marrying.
A glint in the grass caught his eye – a broken mobile. Phones and computers were both his profession and passion; he was a programmer and vlogger. He owned the latest models purely for work, but pulled this one apart to feed his curiosity. It looked crushed, as if a car had run over it and flung it aside.
*”Might be trouble,”* he thought, shoving the broken phone into his pocket. *”Look at home.”*
***
After breakfast, he extracted the SIM card from the found phone and inserted it into one of his own. The numbers stored were mainly hospitals, pension offices, and similar places, but the top contact read ‘Daughter’.
Hesitating for only a moment, he dialled:
“Mum!” a delighted child’s voice rang out.
“I… I’m not your mum,” Constantine replied awkwardly.
“Where’s Mum then?”
“I don’t know. I found this broken phone, put the SIM chip in mine, and rang this number.”
“My mum’s gone missing,” came the sobbing reply. “She went to the shops yesterday and never came back.”
“What about your dad? Your Nan?”
“I’ve only got Mum. There’s no one else.”
“What’s your name?” Constantine knew he had to help.
“Emily.”
“I’m Constantine. Emily, go ask the neighbours for help. Tell them you’re alone.”
“I can’t go out. My legs won’t move. And the flat next door is empty.”
“Wait, not move?” Constantine was baffled.
“I was born like this. Mum says we’re saving up for an operation.”
“How do you get about?”
“In a wheelchair.”
“Emily, do you know your address?” Constantine switched to action-mode.
“Yes, 7 Cutty Sark Way, Flat 18.”
“I’m on my way. We’ll find your mum.”
He ended the call.
Nina Adams, his mother, entered his room:
“Constantine, what’s happened?”
“Mum, I found a mobile. Put its SIM card in my phone and rang the first contact. Well… there’s a little girl alone in her flat, she’s disabled. No other family. I got her address. I’m going.”
“We’re going together,” stated the woman, pulling on her coat.
Nina Adams, having raised a frequently ill son alone, understood the struggle of a single mother with a sick child. Retired now, her son earned a good living.
They hailed a taxi to rescue the girl.
***
They buzzed the intercom.
“Who is it?” came a small, sad voice.
“Emily, it’s Constantine.”
“Come up!”
Entering the foyer, the front door to Flat 18 was slightly ajar.
Inside, a thin girl in a wheelchair met their gaze with sorrowful eyes:
“Will you find my mum?”
“What’s her name?” Constantine asked swiftly.
“Lydia.”
“Surname?”
“Perry.”
“Hold on, Constantine!” his mother interjected, turning to Emily. “Emily, are you hungry?”
“Yes. There was a burger in the fridge, but I ate it yesterday.”
“Right, Constantine, dash to our usual shop, buy what we usually get for breakfast.”
“On it!” he raced back out.
***
When he returned, his mother had organised the kitchen. She unpacked the shopping and laid the table.
Once they’d eaten, Constantine focused on finding the girl’s mum.
He looked up the local council news site, scanning yesterday’s incidents.
*”Here we go. On Park Lane, the driver of a Rover lost control, colliding with a female pedestrian. The injured woman is in critical condition at St Mary’s.”*
He pulled out his mobile and dialled. Someone finally answered on the third ring.
“Yes, we admitted a pedestrian casualty from Park Lane yesterday. Critical condition. Still unconscious.”
“Her surname?”
“No identification or mobile found on her. Are you family?”
“Well… not sure yet…”
“Come by…”
“I know the address. On my way.”
He hung up and approached Emily.
“Have you got a photo of your mum?”
“Yes,” she manoeuvred to the cabinet and pulled out an album. “Here’s one Mum and I took recently.”
“Your mum’s beautiful!”
Constantine snapped a photo with his phone, smiling at Emily:
“Off to hunt down your mum.”
***
Her eyes opened. A white ceiling. Awareness returned slowly. A memory flashed: headlights speeding towards her…
Trying to move sent pain radiating through her limbs. A nurse approached softly:
“Awake?”
Lydia’s eyes widened in panic:
“How long have I been here?”
“Two days.”
“My daughter! She’s alone at home…”
“Lydia, easy does it!” the nurse gently placed a hand on her chest. “A young man came yesterday. Left his phone. Said yours was crushed.”
“I need to call…”
“Right away!” The nurse tapped the contact labelled ‘daughter’ and held the phone to Lydia’s ear.
“Mum!”
“Emily? My darling girl, how are you?”
“Fine! Granny Nina and Uncle Constantine are here.”
“Uncle Constantine?”
“Patient, please stay calm!” snapped the doctor walking in. “Or I’ll take the phone. I need to examine you!”
“Darling, I’ll call back,” Lydia gasped before the nurse switched the phone off.
The doctor examined her, gave instructions to the nurse, who promptly set up an IV.
As the doctor left, the nurse pocketed the phone.
“Please,” Lydia whispered weakly, “just another minute with my daughter?”
“The doctor said no stress,”
They stepped through the school gates hand-in-hand, a once-fragmented family now woven together by kindness and unwavering support, ready to embrace whatever came next.