Three Days Without a Call
Valerie Stevens checked the phone for the fourth time that morning—picked it up, listened for the dial tone, then put it back. The line was working fine, so it wasn’t the phone. She glanced at the clock: half ten. Usually, Chris called at nine sharp when he got to work, but today marked the third day of silence.
“Maybe he’s ill?” she muttered, dusting the telephone table. “Or sent off on a last-minute job?”
But her son always gave her a heads-up about trips—their unspoken rule. She poured herself tea, but it tasted bitter, even though she’d stirred in sugar as usual. Sitting by the window, she watched the neighbour, Margaret, hang laundry while humming cheerfully. Margaret’s kids phoned daily, her grandchildren visited every weekend. And Chris…
The phone rang—sharp, urgent. Valerie lunged for it, nearly knocking over her chair.
“Hello? Chris?”
“Sorry, wrong number,” a woman’s voice replied.
“Oh… my mistake.”
She hung up slowly. Her heart hammered in her throat. Fancy getting so worked up over a wrong number. Returning to the window, she couldn’t focus on the street anymore. Her thoughts tangled, each one worse than the last.
Chris drove lorries for a haulage firm, covering the county and sometimes further. What if there’d been an accident? The telly was always reporting road incidents. Valerie jumped up and paced the room. Her hands shook as she dialled his number again.
“The person you are calling is unavailable,” the automated voice intoned.
“Good Lord, what’s happened?” she whispered.
She remembered their row a week ago—silly, over nothing. Chris had dropped by, and she’d nagged him about settling down, why he was dragging his feet at thirty-five. He’d frowned, said he needed to get on his feet properly first. She’d pressed, and he’d snapped, “Mum, give it a rest. I’ve enough on my plate.”
“What problems? You’ve a job, a car, a flat… What more d’you need?”
“A bit of understanding,” he’d muttered before leaving early.
She’d sulked all evening. Now, she regretted every word. Was Chris giving her the silent treatment? No—he wasn’t the type.
By lunch, the worry gnawed at her. She pulled on her coat and went next door. Margaret blinked in surprise.
“Val! Everything alright? You look peaky.”
“Marg, can I come in? I’m beside myself.”
“Course, love. Fancy a cuppa?”
They sat at the kitchen table. Valerie poured out her fears while Margaret nodded sympathetically.
“Have you been round his place?” Margaret finally asked.
“How? I’ve no key. And it’s not right, just turning up uninvited—”
“Rubbish! You’re his mum! Go, knock. Might be poorly in bed, too feverish to call.”
“What if he’s not in?”
“Ask the neighbours. Folk understand a mother’s worry.”
Valerie bit her lip. It made sense, but the thought twisted her stomach. What if he wasn’t alone? What if he had company and she barged in?
“Marg, maybe I’ll wait? He might ring tomorrow?”
“Val, love—three days? Not like him. Best check, or you’ll drive yourself spare.”
That evening, Valerie still hadn’t gone. She tossed in bed, straining for any sound. Maybe the phone would ring. It didn’t.
By the fourth morning, she couldn’t wait. She took the bus to his flat in the new estates, a boxy high-rise. On the fifth floor, she hesitated at his door, then rang the bell. Silence. She pressed again. A scrape of movement, footsteps.
“Who’s there?” Chris’s voice—hoarse, tired.
“Chris, it’s me. Mum.”
A pause. Locks clicked, the door cracked open. Chris stood there in scuffed slippers, rumpled t-shirt, stubbled and bleary-eyed.
“Mum? What’s wrong?”
“Chris, love!” She moved to hug him, but he stepped back.
“Come in,” he mumbled, heading to the sofa.
The flat was a tip. Dirty plates, empty beer cans, an ashtray overflowing—Chris didn’t smoke, so he’d had company. Crumpled sheets lay tangled on the couch.
“Son, what’s happened? I’ve been frantic—three days, no word…”
Chris sank into an armchair, rubbing his face.
“Not now, Mum.”
“Not now? Are you ill? Feverish?” She reached for his forehead, but he batted her hand away.
“I’m not ill. Just… bloody sacked.”
“Sacked? Why?”
“Crashed the lorry. My fault. Now I owe for the damages.”
Valerie sat on the sofa edge. The mess, the silence—it made sense now.
“Chris, why didn’t you say? D’you think I’d scold you?”
“What’s to say? Lost everything—job, rep… Mortgage due, no cash.” His voice cracked.
She moved beside him, took his hand. This time, he didn’t pull away.
“Chris, it’s not the end. Jobs come and go. You’re alive, that’s what matters.”
“Mum, you don’t get it. Thirty-five, skint, no family, no trade. Just debt.”
“You’ve got me. And your hands—you’ve always been clever with your hands.”
He gave a bitter laugh.
“Clever? Clever hands don’t write off lorries.”
“Tell me what happened.”
He sighed.
“Delivering a load, running late. Boss said on time, no excuses, but the motorway was jammed. Took a back road, wet, lost it on a bend. Hit the barrier. Lorry’s scrap, load ruined.”
“You weren’t hurt?”
“Bruised. Rest is… well.” He waved vaguely.
Valerie stood, clattered in the kitchen. She returned with tea.
“Drink this. Then we’ll sort it.”
“Mum, there’s nothing to sort.”
“Nonsense. You’ll find work—if you want it. Money… I’ve a bit put by.”
“I’m not taking your savings.”
“Not taking—helping. That’s what mums do.”
Chris looked at her then, just like when he was small, skinned knees or bad marks. She’d always known how to fix it.
“Chris, remember year seven? Failed maths, cried all night.”
“Yeah.”
“What happened after?”
“You tutored me till I caught up.”
“Exactly. Answers come—just not always straight off.”
They drank in silence. Valerie kicked herself for waiting three days. A mother knows.
“Mum, sorry I didn’t call. Was ashamed. Thought I’d sort it alone.”
“Silly boy. You don’t hide these things. I’m not just here for the good bits.”
“Didn’t want to upset you.”
“I thought you were cross—about the marriage talk.”
Chris smirked.
“Nah. Though… maybe you had a point. Had a missus, might not be sulking like this.”
“You’ll find one. And work. But first—when did you last eat proper?”
“Dunno.”
“Thought so. You’re pale as milk. I’ll pop to Tesco, make a roast.”
“Mum—”
“Hush. Shower, shave. We’ll tidy after.”
At the door, she turned.
“And no more three-day silences! I need to know you’re alright.”
“Alright. I’ll call.”
“Every other day. Non-negotiable.”
That evening, they ate at a clean table. Chris had seconds, even thirds. The flat gleamed, smelling of polish and gravy.
“Y’know, Mum… maybe getting sacked’s for the best,” Chris said, pushing his plate away. “Hated that job. Boss was a tyrant, hours all over…”
“What d’you fancy doing?”
“Thought of a garage. I’m decent with motors. No cash to start, though.”
“Find a partner? Or work at one first, learn the ropes?”
“Could ask Pete—old mate, runs a small place. Said he needs hands.”
“Ring him tomorrow. Till then, I’ll help with funds.”
“Mum—”
“No arguments. My savings are for you.”
Chris stood, pulled her into a hug.
“Ta. For everything.”
“I’m your mum. Who else?”
Next morning, the phone woke her.
“Mum, morning!” Chris sounded bright. “Sleep alright?”
“Chris! Oh, lovely to hear.”
“Spoke to Pete. Off to his garage today—see how it pans out. I’ll pop round after, yeah?”
“Can’t wait. And Chris?”
“Yeah?”
“No more”Promise me—no more three days without a call.” And as she hung up, Valerie smiled, knowing that no matter what life threw at them, they’d always find their way through it together.
