**Your Number Is Forgotten**
“Mum, how many times?!” Emily flung her phone onto the table so hard the screen flickered and went black. “Every single day! Bloody every day!”
“Emily, love, I didn’t mean to…” Margaret tightened her grip on her old flip phone with the faded numbers. “I just forgot again. My memory’s not what it used to be.”
“Forgot!” Emily jumped up from the sofa and paced the room. “Mum, I’ve explained it a hundred times! You press the green button when it rings. Green! Not red, not blue—green!”
“I did press the green one…”
“No, Mum, you pressed red because I got cut off. That means you hung up on me!”
Margaret stared helplessly at her daughter, then at the phone. Small, black, with buttons that felt either too tiny or too bright. She remembered when the whole block shared one phone in the hallway. Simpler times.
“Love, maybe I don’t need this thing?” she murmured. “We managed fine without them before.”
“Mum!” Emily froze, looking at her as if she’d said something dreadful. “How can you say that? What if something happens? What if I need to reach you? What if—”
“All right, all right,” Margaret relented. “I’ll try again. Show me one more time.”
Emily sat beside her, taking the phone. Her fingers were slender, manicured—nails painted a shade Margaret still thought too bold. Her own hands, speckled with age spots and knotted with veins, looked ancient in comparison.
“Watch, Mum. When it rings, the screen lights up. See? Green button on the left—that’s ‘answer.’ Red on the right—‘decline.’ Green means yes, red means no.”
“Green yes, red no,” Margaret repeated dutifully. “What if I mix them up?”
“You won’t,” Emily sighed. “Think of it like traffic lights. Green is go, red is stop.”
“Right,” Margaret nodded, though grass and blood made no sense to her either. “How do I call you?”
“We’ve done this, Mum. Tap my photo in contacts. Look, I set it up—see? Your daughter Emily. Tap it, and it calls me.”
Margaret squinted at the screen. There was Emily, smiling, youthful—nothing like the tired, frustrated woman before her now.
“What if I forget where your picture is?”
“It’s at the top of the list!”
“And if the phone breaks?”
“It won’t,” Emily rubbed her temples. “Tell you what—I’ll write my number on the fridge. Big digits. You can use the landline.”
“You said we didn’t need a landline because I had this.”
“Then borrow a neighbour’s phone.”
“Which neighbours?” Margaret blinked. “They’re all young, always working. No time for chat.”
“Mum—” Emily dropped onto the sofa, covering her face. “I don’t know what to do. I call every day, and you don’t pick up. I panic, rush over—and you’re fine, just pressed the wrong button.”
“I’m sorry, love. I never mean to worry you.”
“I know. But you do.”
Margaret studied her hands. These hands had cooked Sunday roasts, scrubbed floors, cradled baby Emily. Now they couldn’t handle a tiny plastic box.
“Remember,” she said suddenly, “your toy phone? Pink, with huge buttons. You’d chat for hours, pretending to call Gran in Devon.”
“I remember. I learned numbers on it.”
“And now it’s my turn,” Margaret gave a sad smile. “How things change.”
Emily moved closer. “Let’s try again. Slowly. I’ll call now, you answer. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Emily dialled. Margaret’s phone buzzed, her daughter’s photo flashing.
“See my picture? Now press green. This one.”
Margaret stared. Two buttons—green and red. She knew which to press. Yet her finger drifted toward red.
“No, Mum—not that one!” Emily grabbed her hand. “Here, green!”
“Sorry, sorry. I know it’s green.”
She pressed it. A dial tone, then Emily’s voice—both in the room and through the phone.
“Hello? Mum, can you hear me?”
“I can! It worked!”
“Brilliant!” Emily ended the call. “See? Easy. Again.”
They practised for half an hour. Emily called; Margaret answered. Seven out of ten times, she got it right. Three times, she still hit red.
“Why do you press red?” Emily asked. “You know it’s green.”
“I know. But my hand just… goes there. Maybe it’s bigger. Or brighter.”
“Maybe you need a different phone. They make simple ones—big buttons, clear screens.”
“No,” Margaret said quickly. “This one’s fine. You gave it to me for my birthday, remember? I’ll get used to it.”
“Alright,” Emily kissed her cheek. “I’ve got to go. We’ll practise tomorrow.”
“Of course, love. Don’t be late.”
Alone, Margaret studied the phone. Small, light, fitting snugly in her palm. So much cleverness in such a tiny thing.
She tried calling Emily. The line rang. Panicked, she hung up—red button again.
By evening, she could dial. But answering? Still a puzzle. Her hands shook, buttons blurred, and red kept winning.
Next day, Emily arrived flustered.
“Mum, you called me fifteen times! I thought something was wrong!”
“Sorry, love. I was practising.”
“Practising? Don’t actually call! Just pretend. Long beeps mean it’s working; short ones mean you messed up.”
“But how do I know it’s really you?”
“Mum,” Emily sat beside her. “I call every day. I visit. But I can’t be here always. I’ve got work, my own life.”
“I know, love. I don’t expect you to be. It’s just… sometimes I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“Everything. The phone breaking. Me falling ill. You not reaching me. Forgetting how to use it. Forgetting your number.”
“It’s saved in contacts. I set it all up.”
“And if the phone dies? If I lose it?”
“We’ll get a new one.”
“Your number?”
“Mum, it’s written everywhere. Your address book, a note in your purse, the fridge. You won’t lose it.”
Margaret nodded, but the fear lingered. She used to know every number—neighbours, doctors, Emily’s school. Now she barely recalled her own.
“Numbers were shorter back then,” she mused. “Five, six digits max. Now it’s all these elevens—who can remember?”
“You don’t have to. That’s what contacts are for.”
“But what if I forget how to use those?”
“You won’t.”
“I will. I forget loads. Yesterday I hunted for my glasses—they were on my head. Couldn’t recall Mrs. next door’s name, and she’s lived there ten years!”
“That’s normal, Mum. Everyone forgets.”
“Not like this. You don’t.”
“Course I do!” Emily laughed. “Last week I left the shopping list at home. Stood in the aisle, blank.”
“That’s different. You’re young, busy. I’m old, and my mind’s… slipping.”
“Age isn’t a prison, Mum. My friend’s nan is seventy-five, posts grandkids’ photos online. Taught herself.”
“She’s clever.”
“So are you. It just takes time.”
Margaret studied her daughter—her father’s dark eyes, but her own gentle patience.
“Alright,” she said. “Let’s try again. But don’t snap if I muck it up.”
“I won’t. Promise.”
They practised calls, then texts (too hard).
“Stick to calls for now,” Emily said.
“How did people cope without these?” Margaret wondered.
“Families stayed together then. Grandparents, kids—all under one roof.”
“Yes,” Margaret sighed. “When I was small, we lived with my parents, grandparents—one room. Cramped, but never lonely.”
“D’you want me to move back in?”
“No, love. You’ve your own life. Just… gets lonely.”
“Join a club. The library has groups.”
“At my age?”
“Why not? Knitting, painting, choir.”
“I can’t do any of that.”
“You could learn. Like the phone.”
Margaret considered it. She’d been an accountant, raised Emily, kept house. No time for hobbies. Now she had time—and nothing to fill it.
“Maybe,” she said. “I’ll think on it. Now—phone.”
Emily smiled, hugging her.
“Mum, how about my old phone? Bigger buttons, simpler. I’ll take this one back—And as the days passed, Margaret found herself pressing the right button more often than not, while Emily learned to pause and breathe before frustration took hold, their bond growing stronger with each small victory.
