**Three Days Without a Call**
Valerie Wilkins lifted the receiver for the fourth time that morning, listened to the dial tone, and sighed as she set it back down. The phone was working fine—so the problem wasn’t the line. She glanced at the clock: half ten. Normally, her son George would ring by nine, right when he got to work, but today marked the third day of silence.
“Maybe he’s ill?” she muttered, dusting the telephone table. “Or whisked off on some last-minute business trip?”
But George always warned her about trips. It was their unspoken rule. She poured herself tea, though it tasted bitter despite the usual spoonful of sugar. Sinking into her chair by the window, she watched the street below. Her neighbour, Maggie Thompson, was hanging laundry in the garden, humming some cheerful tune. Maggie’s children rang daily, and the grandchildren visited every weekend. Meanwhile, George…
The phone rang abruptly, shattering the quiet. Valerie nearly knocked over the chair in her haste to answer.
“Hello? George?”
“Sorry, wrong number,” a stranger’s voice replied.
“Oh… my mistake.”
She replaced the receiver slowly. Her heart pounded in her throat. Imagine getting so worked up over a wrong number. She tried to focus on the street again, but her thoughts swirled—each one worse than the last.
George drove lorries for a haulage firm, covering routes across the county and sometimes farther. What if there’d been an accident? The news was always full of motorway pile-ups. Valerie sprang up, pacing the room. Hands trembling, she dialled his number again.
“The person you are calling is unavailable,” the automated voice chirped.
“Lord, what’s happened?” she whispered.
She remembered their argument last week—silly, over nothing. George had visited, and she’d nagged him about settling down. “You’re thirty-five, love. When will you start a family?” He’d scowled, muttered something about needing to “get on his feet properly,” but she wouldn’t let it go.
“Mum, drop it, yeah?” he’d said wearily. “Got enough on my plate as it is.”
“What ‘plate’? You’ve got a good job, a flat, a car—what more do you need?”
“Bit of understanding would be nice,” he’d grumbled before leaving early.
She’d sulked all evening. Now, she regretted every word. Maybe George was avoiding her out of spite… though no, he wasn’t the type. Her boy never held grudges.
By lunch, the worry became unbearable. Valerie threw on her coat and knocked on Maggie’s door.
“Val! You look dreadful—what’s wrong?”
“I’m beside myself, I tell you.”
“Come in, love. Cuppa?”
Over tea, Valerie spilled her fears. Maggie listened, nodding sympathetically.
“Have you gone ’round his flat?”
“How? I don’t have a key. And you can’t just turn up unannounced—”
“Rubbish! You’re his mum! Pop over, knock. Maybe he’s poorly—that’s why he’s not rung.”
“And if he’s not there?”
“Ask the neighbours. They’ll understand a mother’s worry.”
Valerie hesitated. It made sense… but what if George wasn’t alone? Some new girlfriend she didn’t know about? She’d die of embarrassment.
“Maybe I should wait. He might ring tomorrow?”
“Val, it’s been three days. That’s not like him. Better know for sure than drive yourself mad.”
That night, Valerie still couldn’t bring herself to go. She tossed in bed, jumping at every creak, hoping the phone might ring. It never did.
On the fourth morning, she’d had enough. She took the bus to George’s estate, a modern block of flats. Heart in her throat, she climbed to his floor and hovered outside his door.
She pressed the buzzer. Nothing. Tried again. A rustle, then footsteps.
“Who’s there?” George’s voice—hoarse, weary.
“George, it’s me.”
A pause. Locks clicked, and the door cracked open. George stood there in scruffy joggers and a wrinkled T-shirt, unshaven and bleary-eyed.
“Mum? What’s wrong?”
“Darling!” She moved to hug him, but he stepped back.
“Come in,” he mumbled, slouching toward the sitting room.
The flat was a sty. Dirty plates, empty beer cans, and a full ashtray littered the table. George didn’t smoke—must’ve had mates over. A crumpled duvet lay tangled on the sofa.
“Love, what’s happened? I’ve been frantic—three days without a word!”
George sank into the armchair, scrubbing his face.
“Not now, Mum.”
“‘Not now’? Are you ill? Have you a fever?” She reached for his forehead, but he waved her off.
“I’m fine. Just…” He trailed off, staring at the window.
“Just what? George, you’re scaring me!”
He was silent a long moment. Then, quietly:
“Got sacked.”
“What? Why?”
“Crashed the lorry. My fault. Now I owe for the damages.”
Valerie sat on the sofa’s edge. Suddenly, the mess, the silence—it all made sense.
“Oh, love. Why didn’t you say? You think I’d lecture you?”
“What’s to say? Lost the job, my rep… Rent’s due, and I’m skint.” His voice cracked.
She moved beside him, taking his hand. This time, he didn’t pull away.
“George, it’s not the end of the world. You’ll find work. At least you’re unhurt.”
“You don’t get it. I’m thirty-five—no family, no savings, no proper trade. Just debt.”
“You’ve got a mum who loves you. And you’re clever with your hands—always fixing things.”
He gave a bitter laugh.
“Clever? Couldn’t even keep the lorry on the road.”
“Tell me what happened.”
He sighed. “Rush job. Boss said deliver on time, but the M25 was chock-a-block. Took a detour—wet road, skidded on a bend, hit the barrier. Cargo ruined, lorry written off.”
“And you? Were you hurt?”
“Bruises. But the rest…” He waved vaguely.
Valerie stood, bustling to the kitchen. The clatter of dishes filled the silence. She returned with a teapot and two mugs.
“Tea first. Then we’ll sort this out.”
“Mum, there’s no ‘sorting’ it.”
“Don’t be daft. Jobs come and go. As for money… I’ve a bit put by.”
“I’m not taking your savings.”
“It’s not ‘taking’—it’s help. From your mum. There’s a difference.”
He met her eyes then, and she saw the same lost look he’d had as a boy after scraping his knees or failing a test. She’d always known how to fix it.
“Remember in Year Eight when you failed maths? Thought your life was over, cried half the night.”
“Yeah.”
“And what happened?”
“You tutored me till I passed.”
“Exactly. There’s always a way—just takes time to see it.”
They drank in silence. Valerie kicked herself for not coming sooner. A mother’s gut knew when something was off—she’d just been too proud to intrude.
“Mum… sorry I didn’t ring,” George said suddenly. “Was too ashamed. Thought I’d fix it myself.”
“Silly boy. You don’t hide things like this from me. I’m not just here for the good bits.”
“Didn’t want to upset you.”
“And I thought you were cross about the marriage talk!”
He managed a weak smile.
“Nah. Though… maybe you had a point. If I had a missus, I wouldn’t be moping here like a hermit.”
“You’ll find someone. But first—when did you last eat properly?”
“Dunno.”
“Thought so. You’re pale as milk. I’ll nip to the shop, make you a proper roast.”
“Mum, you don’t—”
“I do. Now shower and shave. We’ll tidy up after.”
At the door, she turned.
“And no more three-day silences! Understood?”
“Yeah. I’ll ring. Promise.”
“Every other day—that’s my rule.”
That evening, they sat to a proper meal. George devoured two helpings and even asked for thirds. The flat gleamed, smelling of lemon polish and home cooking.
“Y’know, Mum… maybe getting sacked was a blessing,” George said, setting down his fork. “Hated that job. Boss was a nutter, hours were rubbish…”
“What would you”And as she watched him finally smile while washing up, Valerie knew that no matter what life threw at them, they’d always find their way back to each other.”
