Unread Messages - She Never Stopped Writing. She Just Stopped Sending.
A mother’s silence wasn’t absence — it was love, saved in drafts.
Story: S A Spencer
Author of Popular Fictions: The Pink Mutiny, The Black Waters, Dream In Shackles
She typed
the message, paused, then deleted it.
“Are you
eating well?” Too
clingy.
“I miss
you.” Too needy.
“Can I
call?” Too
desperate.
Margaret
stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The draft folder
blinked open, revealing a quiet graveyard of unsent words. Forty-seven
messages. All to her daughter. All unsent.
She closed
the app and placed the phone face-down on the kitchen bench. The kettle hissed
behind her, steam curling into the morning light. She poured the water into her
mug, the scent of chamomile rising like memory. The house was silent, save for
the ticking clock and the occasional creak of old timber.
Her daughter
hadn’t visited in six months.
Not since
the promotion. Not since the new apartment. Not since the world got louder and
Margaret’s voice got smaller.
She walked
to the lounge, settled into the armchair, and pulled the blanket over her
knees. The phone buzzed once.
She didn’t
move.
Then again.
She picked
it up.
A message.
From her
daughter.
“Hey Mum!
Crazy week. Will call soon xx”
Margaret
stared at it. Her thumb hovered.
She typed: “No
worries. Hope you’re well.”
Then deleted
it.
Instead, she
opened the draft folder.
Typed: “I’m
proud of you. Even when I don’t say it.”
Then saved
it.
And closed
the app.
***
Across town,
Emily rushed through the office lobby, heels clicking against polished tiles.
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it mid-stride.
Mum.
She sighed.
She’d meant
to call. She always meant to call.
But life was
a blur — meetings, deadlines, drinks with friends, dates that fizzled, emails
that never stopped. Her mother’s messages were always gentle. Always patient.
Always… there.
She opened
the thread.
No new
messages.
She frowned.
Usually
there was something. A reminder. A recipe. A photo of the garden.
She tapped
the call button.
It rang.
And rang.
Then
voicemail.
She hung up.
She’d call
later.
She always
said that.
***
Margaret sat
in the garden, pruning the roses. The sun was soft, the breeze gentle. She wore
her wide-brimmed hat and the apron Emily had gifted her years ago — faded now,
but still her favourite.
She paused,
wiped her hands, and pulled out her phone.
Typed: “The
roses bloomed early this year. You’d love the colour.”
Then deleted
it.
Typed: “I
made your favourite lemon tart today. Too much for one person.”
Deleted.
Typed: “I
miss your laugh.”
Deleted.
She opened
the draft folder.
Message
forty-eight.
She stared
at the screen.
Then closed
it.
And went
back to the roses.
***
Emily sat at
her desk, staring at the spreadsheet that refused to make sense. Her phone
buzzed again.
Mum.
She picked
it up.
Still no new
messages.
She frowned.
Something
felt off.
She opened
the thread, scrolled up, reread old texts.
Then she
noticed the timestamps.
Her mother
hadn’t messaged in weeks.
She dialled
again.
Voicemail.
She grabbed
her bag, left the office, and headed for the train.
***
Margaret sat
in the lounge, watching the shadows stretch across the floor. The phone lay
beside her, untouched. She hadn’t eaten. The lemon tart sat in the fridge,
untouched.
She opened
the draft folder.
Typed: “I’m
okay. Just tired today.”
Deleted.
Typed: “I
wish I could tell you how much I miss you.”
Deleted.
Typed: “I
just want to hear your voice.”
She stared
at the words.
Then saved
it.
Message
forty-nine.
She closed
her eyes.
***
Emily
knocked on the door, heart pounding.
No answer.
She knocked
again.
“Mum?”
Still
nothing.
She tried
the handle.
Unlocked.
She stepped
inside.
The house
was quiet. Too quiet.
“Mum?”
She walked
through the hallway, into the lounge.
And saw her.
Asleep in
the armchair.
Phone beside
her.
Emily rushed
over. “Mum?”
Margaret
stirred, eyes fluttering open.
“Emily?”
Emily knelt
beside her. “I was worried.”
Margaret
smiled faintly. “You came.”
Emily
nodded, tears brimming. “I should’ve come sooner.”
Margaret
reached for her hand. “You’re here now.”
Emily picked
up the phone, opened the messages.
Then saw the
draft folder.
Forty-nine
unsent messages.
She opened
the latest.
Read the
words.
“I just want
to hear your voice.”
Emily looked
at her mother.
And
whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Margaret
smiled.
And for the
first time in months, the silence felt full.
Not empty.
✍️ Author’s Note
Thank you for spending time with Unread Messages. Stories like this come from the quiet corners of life — the places where love sits unspoken, waiting to be noticed. If this piece touched you, even in a small way, I’d be grateful if you could like, share, comment, and subscribe. Your support helps these stories reach more readers, and your thoughts genuinely shape the direction of this blog. I’d love to hear what resonated with you, or if it reminded you of someone in your own life. Let’s keep the conversation going.
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