“Egg and chips again, Mum? I can’t stand this rubbish anymore!” he yelled furiously.
His mother flinched, startled. The spoon slipped from her trembling fingers. She lowered her gaze, trying to hide her shame.
“It’s all we’ve got, son,” she whispered weakly.
The boy slammed his plate onto the table. Chips scattered across the floor.
A few clung to his mother’s face.
“Then you eat it, this muck!” he snapped, turning away.
She said nothing.
Kneeling, shaking, she began picking up the chips—one by one.
As if salvaging what little was left—of food, of dignity.
Then she went to her room.
Dropped to her knees by the bed, as she did every night.
And prayed. For him.
But the son no longer felt her love.
No longer saw any worth in her.
A few days later, he announced:
“I’m leaving. I’ve had enough of this beggar’s life. Going to London—I want more.”
She didn’t stop him. Didn’t cry.
But with a broken heart, she gripped his hand and said:
“Just promise me one thing—answer my calls. I’m begging you, son… please.”
He sighed, irritated.
Then she added, voice cracking:
“I’m tired… I feel my time’s coming.
The day I stop calling… it’ll be because I’m gone.”
He jerked his hand free—and left.
Didn’t even say goodbye.
—
London wasn’t what he dreamed.
Worked odd jobs: carried boxes, bouncer at pubs, mixed cement on sites.
A meal was a luxury. Money—even rarer.
But every day… the phone rang.
“Hello, son… how are you?”
“Busy, Mum. Bye.”
And he slammed the receiver. Quicker each time. More distant.
Until one day… it didn’t ring at all.
And that silence… was louder than any words.
He stared at the screen all day.
Evening came. He thought:
“She’s gone.”
He didn’t cry.
Didn’t even try to call back.
Couldn’t afford the funeral anyway.
Wouldn’t have gone even if he could.
—
Days passed. He knew—she was dead.
Exhausted by poverty, he took an offer:
“Easy job. Just drive a car,” his mate said.
The boot was full of drugs. He knew.
But he wanted quick cash.
That night, he adjusted the mirror, gripped the wheel…
And the phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He answered.
“Son… please, don’t do this. Turn back. Now. I’m begging you.”
The voice… it was hers.
His heart thundered.
“Mum!? You’re alive!?”
“Listen to me. Come home. Be safe.”
Then she hung up.
He tried calling back.
But an automated voice crushed his chest:
“The number does not exist.”
He stumbled out of the car, drenched in cold sweat, gasping.
Sold what little he had—some clothes, a pair of trainers.
Scraped together enough change to return.
—
When he arrived, the street was quiet.
Neighbours watched with pity.
“Your mum passed a month ago…”
He collapsed onto the pavement.
“That’s impossible… she rang me yesterday!”
“Can’t be, son. She’s long gone.”
He entered the house.
Her scent still lingered.
The silence choked him.
In her room, by the bed—two worn dents in the carpet.
Where she’d knelt each night… praying for him.
In the corner—a list of prayers.
His name—first. Every day.
From the day he left… till her last.
He fell to his knees.
Sobbed. Breathless.
Stumbled to the kitchen, splashed his face… and saw it.
A folded note on the table.
Not a letter—a prayer. In her handwriting:
“Lord, I feel myself fading.
If I die, I can’t pray for my son anymore.
So… I leave him to You.
If he’s ever in danger, I beg You… warn him.
Call him on this number.”
At the bottom—his mobile number.
Then—his phone buzzed.
A news alert:
“Shooting on M25. Driver killed. Cargo stolen.”
The photo—the same car he was meant to drive that night.
He crumpled to his knees.
And understood.
That call… came from heaven.
God heard a mother’s last prayer.
And saved the son who forgot how to love.
If your mum still calls you—answer.
Before it’s too late.
