The Number You Forgot
“Mum, how many times must we go through this?” Emily flung her mobile onto the table so hard the screen flickered and went dark. “Every single day, the same thing! Bloody every day!”
“Emily dear, I didn’t mean to…” Margaret clutched her old button phone, its numbers nearly worn away. “It just slips my mind. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”
“Slipped your mind!” Emily sprang from the sofa and paced the room. “Mum, I’ve shown you a hundred times! When the phone rings, you press the green button. Green! Not red, not blue—green!”
“I did press the green one…”
“No, Mum, you pressed red because I heard the short beeps. That means you hung up on me!”
Margaret looked helplessly at her daughter, then down at her phone. Small, black, with buttons that seemed either too tiny or too bright. She remembered the days when there was just one telephone in the whole house, shared by everyone in their building. Life had been simpler then.
“Love, maybe I don’t need this phone after all,” she murmured. “We managed fine without them once.”
“Mum!” Emily froze, staring at her as if she’d said something dreadful. “How can you say that? What if something happens to you? What if I need to reach you? What if—”
“All right, all right,” Margaret conceded quickly. “I’ll keep trying. Show me again.”
Emily sat beside her and took the phone. Her hands were slender, manicured, nails painted a shade Margaret always thought too bold. Her own hands—spotted with age, fingers knotted—looked ancient by comparison.
“Look, Mum. When it rings, the screen lights up. See? Here, on the left—the green button with the receiver. That’s ‘answer.’ The red one on the right is ‘decline.’ Green for yes, red for no.”
“Green for yes, red for no,” Margaret repeated obediently. “But what if I mix them up?”
“You won’t,” Emily sighed. “Think of it this way: green like grass, like leaves—good. Red like danger, like stop—bad.”
“I see,” Margaret nodded, though she didn’t see at all what grass or danger had to do with it. “How do I call you?”
“Mum, we’ve been over this. Tap my picture in your contacts. See? I set it up for you. My photo, labelled ‘Emily.’ Tap it, and the phone dials me.”
Margaret squinted at the screen. There was Emily’s photo—smiling, young, beautiful. Nothing like the tired, frustrated woman before her now.
“What if I forget where your picture is?”
“Mum, it’s at the top of the list! Right there!”
“Right. And if the phone breaks?”
“It won’t,” Emily rubbed her temples. “Tell you what, I’ll write my number on the fridge. Big and clear. You can call me from the landline.”
“But you said I didn’t need a landline, just the mobile.”
“Then ask a neighbour.”
“Which neighbour?” Margaret faltered. “I hardly know them. They’re young, always working, no time for chat.”
“Mum.” Emily sank onto the sofa, covering her face. “I don’t know what to do. I call you every day, and you don’t pick up. I panic, thinking something’s happened. Then I rush over—and you’re fine, just pressed the wrong button.”
“I’m sorry, love. I don’t mean to upset you.”
“I know. But you do.”
Margaret studied her hands. These hands had once cooked for the family, cleaned, sewed, cradled baby Emily. They could do anything. Now they fumbled with a tiny box of buttons.
“Remember,” she said suddenly, “your little pink toy phone when you were small? Bright buttons. You’d chatter away for hours, pretending to call Granny in the countryside.”
“I remember,” Emily said softly. “It taught me numbers.”
“And now it’s me learning numbers,” Margaret gave a sad smile. “Funny how things turn out.”
“Mum.” Emily leaned closer. “Let’s try again. Slowly. I’ll call you now, and you answer. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Emily dialled. Margaret’s phone buzzed, her daughter’s photo flashing on screen.
“See, Mum? That’s me calling. Now press the green button.”
Margaret stared at the two buttons. She knew it was green—but her finger drifted toward red.
“Not that one!” Emily grabbed her hand. “This one!”
“Right, yes. Sorry.”
She pressed green. The call connected, and suddenly Emily’s voice was in her ear and right beside her.
“Hello? Mum, can you hear me?”
“Yes! It worked!”
“Well done!” Emily ended the call. “Easy, wasn’t it? Let’s try again.”
They practised half an hour. Emily called, Margaret answered. Out of ten tries, she got it right seven. Three times, her finger still found red.
“Mum, why do you keep pressing red?” Emily asked. “You know it’s green.”
“I do. But red jumps out. Bigger, maybe. Brighter.”
“Perhaps a different phone? They make simpler ones, for seniors. Big buttons, clear screens.”
“No,” Margaret said quickly. “This one’s fine. You gave it for my birthday, remember? I’ll get the hang of it.”
“Alright.” Emily kissed her cheek. “Work calls. We’ll practise tomorrow.”
After she left, Margaret sat with the phone. Small, light, crammed with mysteries. She turned it over, found Emily’s photo, tapped it. The dial tone startled her—what if Emily worried? She jabbed red to cancel.
By evening, she could find and dial Emily’s number. But answering? Fingers trembled, buttons confused.
Next day, Emily arrived frazzled.
“Mum, you called fifteen times yesterday! Fifteen! I thought something awful had happened!”
“Sorry, love. I was practising.”
“Practising? Mum, you don’t need to actually call! Just tap—no need to wait for me to pick up.”
“But how else do I know I’ve got it right?”
“If it rings, you’ve done it. Short beeps mean you’ve messed up.”
“Oh. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Emily sat beside her. “I call every day, visit often. But I can’t be here always. Work, life—it’s not possible.”
“I know. I don’t expect it. Only… sometimes I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“Everything. The phone breaking. Falling ill. You not reaching me. Forgetting how it works. Forgetting your number.”
“Mum, your contacts are saved. I set it up.”
“And if it breaks? Gets lost?”
“We’ll replace it.”
“Your number, though—”
“It’s everywhere. Notebook, purse, fridge. You won’t lose it.”
Margaret nodded, but fear lingered. She’d once known every number by heart—neighbours, doctors, Emily’s school. Now she barely recalled her own.
“You know,” she said, “numbers used to be short. Five, maybe six digits. Now it’s all these eleven—who can remember?”
“You don’t have to, Mum. That’s what contacts are for.”
“But what if I forget how to use them?”
“You won’t.”
“I will. I forget so much already. Spent half an hour hunting my glasses yesterday—they were on my head. Couldn’t recall Mrs. Thompson’s name, though she’s lived downstairs fifteen years.”
“That’s normal, Mum. Everyone forgets things.”
“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 as a slate.”
“That’s different. You’re young, busy. I’m old, and my mind’s going.”
“Age isn’t a sentence. Auntie Mabel’s seventy-six and all over social media—photos of the grandkids, cooking blogs. Taught herself.”
“She must be clever.”
“So are you. Just takes time and patience.”
Margaret studied her daughter. Emily had her father’s dark eyes, strong features. But her temperament—gentle, enduring—that was all Margaret.
“Alright,” she said. “Let’s try again. But don’t scold if I bungle it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
They practised calls, then texts—though the latter proved trickier.
“Stick to calls for now,” Emily said.
“Funny, isn’t it? How we ever managed without these.”
“Families lived together then. Grandparents, parents, kids—one roof. Now everyone’s scattered.”
Margaret sighed. “When I was little, we shared a room with my parents and Gran. Cramped, but never lonely.”
“Mum… would youMargaret smiled and squeezed Emily’s hand, realising that while the world had changed around her, some things—like a daughter’s love—would always remain simple and true.
