The Missed Call - When A Single Missed Ring Becomes The Turning Point Of A Lifetime.
Sometimes the smallest silence speaks the loudest.
Story: S A Spencer
Author of Popular Fictions: The Pink Mutiny, The Black Waters, Dream In Shackles
The kettle
clicked off just as Margaret’s phone lit up on the kitchen bench. She froze,
wooden spoon hovering over the saucepan, heart thudding with a ridiculous,
hopeful flutter. For a moment she didn’t breathe. The screen glowed in the dim
morning light filtering through the blinds.
Unknown
number.
Her
shoulders sagged. Not him. Not today either.
Steam curled
from the pot of porridge she’d stirred out of habit, though she rarely finished
more than a few spoonfuls these days. The house felt too big, too quiet, too
full of echoes that used to be laughter. She wiped her hands on her apron and
shuffled to the phone, tapping the screen with a sigh.
A
telemarketer. She hung up.
The silence
that followed felt heavier than the call itself.
She glanced
at the clock. Nearly 9. He’d be at work by now. Or maybe still asleep — young
people kept odd hours. She tried to picture him: tall, handsome, always
rushing, always with that distracted half‑smile when she caught him on video
calls. If she caught him at all.
She reached
for her mug, fingers brushing the chipped ceramic. It was the one he’d painted
for her in Year 3 — lopsided, bright blue, with “MUM” scrawled in uneven
letters. She’d kept it all these years. She still used it every morning.
Her thumb
hovered over his name in her contacts list.
Should I
call? No… he’ll
be busy. He’s always busy.
She put the
phone down and turned back to the stove, stirring the porridge even though it
was already done. The spoon scraped the bottom of the pot, a lonely, rhythmic
sound in the quiet kitchen.
Then the
phone buzzed again.
This time,
her breath caught.
It was him.
Her hand
trembled as she reached for it — but before she could swipe, the screen went
dark.
A missed
call.
Her heart
lurched. She fumbled to call back, but her fingers slipped, tapping the wrong
icons. By the time she got to the call log, her hands were shaking so badly she
had to steady herself on the bench.
She pressed
“Call Back.”
It rang
once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then went to
voicemail.
She stared
at the phone, pulse hammering in her ears.
Why had he
called? Why now? Was something wrong?
The spoon
clattered to the floor, but she didn’t notice.
The phone
stayed silent.
And the
silence felt like a warning.
***
He’d
forgotten to reply.
He forgot a
lot of things lately.
Deadlines.
Birthdays. Promises.
Calls.
He told
himself he’d call her today. Definitely today.
He always
said that.
He crossed
the street, dodging cyclists, and ducked into the office building. The lift
doors slid shut, sealing him in with his reflection — tired eyes, unshaven jaw,
hair sticking up at the back. He looked older than thirty‑two.
He thumbed
through his notifications. Work emails. A message from Mia. A reminder about
rent. And his mum’s name, sitting quietly in the call log.
He
hesitated.
He could
call her now. Just a quick hello. But the lift dinged open and his boss waved
him over.
“Dan! Need
you in the meeting room in five.”
“Yeah,
coming.”
He shoved
the phone back into his pocket.
He’d call
her later.
He always
would.
***
Margaret sat
on the couch, knitting needles clicking softly. The half‑finished scarf pooled
in her lap, a deep forest green — his favourite colour. She’d started it last
winter, thinking he might wear it to work. But winter had come and gone, and
the scarf remained unfinished.
Her phone
lay beside her, screen dark.
She kept
glancing at it anyway.
The house
creaked as the afternoon sun shifted. Outside, a magpie warbled. She closed her
eyes, letting the sound wash over her. It reminded her of school mornings,
walking him to the bus stop, his small hand gripping hers, his backpack
bouncing with every step.
He used to
chatter endlessly. About dinosaurs. About space. About the new kid in class.
About everything.
Now she was
lucky to get a text every few weeks.
She picked
up the phone again, scrolling through old messages.
Happy
birthday, Mum! Sorry I can’t make it today. Work’s crazy. Love you.
That was
from last year.
She
swallowed hard.
She opened
her drafts folder — a habit she’d developed without meaning to. Messages she’d
typed but never sent.
Are you
eating well? I
miss you. Can I call? I made your favourite stew today. Too much
for one person. I’m proud of you, you know. Even if I don’t say it
enough.
She never
sent them. She didn’t want to bother him.
She didn’t
want to be a burden.
Her thumb
hovered over the keyboard.
She typed: Everything
okay? Saw your missed call.
She stared
at the words.
Then deleted
them.
The phone
buzzed suddenly, making her jump.
A text from
Mia.
Hey
Margaret! Just checking in. Dan’s been super busy lately but he’ll call you
soon xx
Margaret
forced a smile.
Mia was
sweet. Thoughtful. But the message stung more than it soothed.
She typed
back: Thanks dear. Hope you’re both well.
She didn’t
add anything else.
The phone
went silent again.
And the
silence felt like a door slowly closing.
***
By evening,
the sky had turned a bruised purple. Daniel and Mia walked back from the
inspection, takeaway containers swinging in their hands. The apartment they’d
seen was perfect — modern, spacious, close to the city. Mia was buzzing with
excitement.
“Imagine
hosting dinner parties here,” she said, looping her arm through his. “Your mum
could come over too.”
He nodded,
though guilt pricked at him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d invited
his mum anywhere.
They reached
their building, climbed the stairs, and stepped inside. Mia headed straight for
the kitchen, unpacking the food. Daniel dropped onto the couch, rubbing his
temples.
“You okay?”
she asked.
“Yeah. Just
tired.”
He pulled
out his phone.
Still no
reply from Mum.
He frowned.
He dialled
her number.
It rang.
And rang.
And rang.
No answer.
A cold
ripple ran through him.
He tried
again.
Voicemail.
He stood
abruptly, pacing the living room.
“Dan?” Mia
asked, concerned.
“She’s not
picking up.”
“She’s
probably asleep.”
“It’s only
seven.”
“Maybe she’s
out?”
“She never
goes out at night.”
He grabbed
his keys.
“I’m going
over.”
“Now?”
“Yes.
Something’s wrong.”
He didn’t
wait for her response.
He was
already out the door.
***
Margaret sat
in her armchair, the room dim except for the soft glow of the lamp. Her
knitting lay forgotten on the floor. She clutched her phone in both hands,
staring at the screen.
She’d missed
his call.
She’d been
in the garden, watering the roses, and didn’t hear it ring. By the time she
came inside, the screen had gone dark.
She tried
calling back, but her fingers fumbled, and the call didn’t go through. She
wasn’t sure if it was her eyesight or her nerves.
Now she sat
waiting.
The house
felt colder than usual.
She pulled a
blanket over her knees, listening to the ticking clock on the wall. Each tick
felt louder, sharper, like it was counting down to something she didn’t
understand.
Her phone
buzzed suddenly.
She jolted.
A message.
From him.
Mum, are
you okay? I’m coming over.
Her breath
caught.
She typed
back quickly — too quickly — and the phone slipped from her hands, clattering
to the floor. Pain shot through her wrist as she bent to pick it up.
The screen
had cracked.
She pressed
the power button.
Nothing.
The phone
stayed dark.
Her heart
pounded.
She tried
again.
Still
nothing.
She stared
at the lifeless screen, panic rising like a tide.
She was
alone.
And she had
no way to tell him she needed him.
***
He knocked.
No answer.
He knocked
again, louder.
“Mum? It’s
me!”
Silence.
He fumbled
for the spare key she kept under the pot plant, hands shaking. He unlocked the
door and pushed it open.
The house
was dark.
Too dark.
“Mum?”
His voice
echoed down the hallway.
No response.
He stepped
inside, heart hammering, eyes scanning the shadows.
Then he saw
something on the floor near the armchair.
Her phone.
Screen
shattered.
He picked it
up, dread curling in his stomach.
“Mum?”
He moved
deeper into the room.
And then he
saw—
Daniel’s
breath caught in his throat.
For a split
second, he couldn’t move. The room was dim, the air heavy with the faint scent
of lavender — her favourite diffuser oil — and something else he couldn’t
place. Something metallic. Something wrong.
“Mum?”
His voice
cracked.
Then he saw
her.
She was
slumped beside the armchair, one hand still tangled in the edge of the blanket,
the other reaching toward the fallen phone. Her eyes were open — not wide, not
terrified — just tired, confused, as if she’d been trying to understand what
was happening to her own body.
“Mum!”
He dropped
to his knees, hands shaking as he touched her shoulder. She blinked slowly, her
lips parting.
“Danny…?”
Her voice was barely a whisper.
“I’m here.
I’m right here.” His throat tightened. “What happened? Why didn’t you answer?”
She tried to
smile, but it faltered. “Phone… fell. I… couldn’t…”
Her breath
hitched. He felt the tremor in her fingers.
He swallowed
hard. “Okay. It’s alright. I’m calling an ambulance.”
“No,” she
murmured, gripping his wrist with surprising strength. “Just… stay.”
He froze.
Her eyes —
soft, grey, familiar — searched his face. “You came.”
“Of course I
came.”
She exhaled
shakily, relief washing over her features. “I thought… maybe you’d given up on
me.”
The words
hit him like a punch.
“Mum, no.
Never. I’m so sorry. I should’ve been here more. I should’ve—”
She shook
her head weakly. “You’re busy. Life… moves on.”
He felt
something inside him crack. “Not from you. Never from you.”
Her hand
slipped from his wrist, falling limply to her side.
“Mum?”
Her eyes
fluttered.
“Mum!”
He fumbled
for his phone, dialling emergency services with trembling fingers. His voice
shook as he gave the address, the details, the urgency. They told him to keep
her awake, keep her talking, keep her breathing.
He tried.
He held her
hand, rubbing warmth back into her cold fingers. “Stay with me, okay? I’m right
here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Her eyelids
fluttered again. “Danny… you’re a good boy.”
He choked on
a sob. “I’m not. But I will be. I promise.”
Her lips
curved into the faintest smile.
Then her
eyes closed.
***
The
ambulance sirens cut through the quiet suburban street, blue and red lights
flashing across the front windows. Paramedics rushed in, voices calm but
urgent. They lifted her gently, checking vitals, asking questions he couldn’t
answer because his mind was a blur of guilt and fear.
“Is she
going to be okay?” he asked, voice cracking.
“We’ll do
everything we can,” one paramedic said, already fitting an oxygen mask over her
face.
He followed
them out, climbing into the back of the ambulance, gripping her hand as if
letting go would mean losing her forever.
Hours later,
the hospital corridor hummed with fluorescent lights and distant footsteps.
Daniel sat hunched in a plastic chair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
Mia arrived breathless, eyes wide with worry. She sat beside him, wrapping an
arm around his shoulders.
“What did
the doctor say?”
“She had a
mild stroke,” he whispered. “They said… they said she’s lucky I came when I
did.”
Mia squeezed
his hand.
He stared at
the floor. “She was alone. For so long. And I didn’t even notice.”
“You’re here
now.”
“It’s not
enough.”
He stood
abruptly, pacing the corridor. “She spent her whole life looking after me. She
worked two jobs. She skipped meals so I could eat. She used her retirement
money to buy us that apartment. And what did I give her? A phone that never
rang.”
His voice
broke.
Mia walked
to him, placing a hand on his chest. “Then change it. Starting now.”
He nodded,
jaw tight.
When the
nurse finally let him into the room, the world seemed to slow. His mother lay
in the hospital bed, pale but breathing steadily, her chest rising and falling
beneath the thin blanket. Machines beeped softly around her.
He pulled a
chair close and sat, taking her hand gently.
Her eyes
opened.
“Danny…”
He leaned
forward, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I’m here, Mum.”
She smiled
faintly. “You came.”
“I’ll always
come.”
She studied
his face, as if memorising it. “You look tired.”
He laughed
softly through the tears. “I’m alright.”
“You work
too much.”
“I know.”
“You should
rest.”
“I will. But
not now.”
She squeezed
his hand. “I’m proud of you.”
He bowed his
head, shoulders shaking. “I don’t deserve that.”
“You do,”
she whispered. “You always did.”
He lifted
her hand to his forehead, closing his eyes. “I’m moving you in with us.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“I’m not
leaving you alone again. We’ll make space. We’ll figure it out. I want you with
us.”
Her eyes
filled with tears. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not.
You’re my mum.”
She let out
a trembling breath. “I’d like that.”
He smiled
through the tears. “Good. Because I’m not giving you a choice.”
She laughed
— a soft, fragile sound — but it was the most beautiful thing he’d heard in
years.
Later that
night, after she’d fallen asleep, Daniel sat quietly beside her, watching the
steady rise and fall of her chest. The hospital room was dim, the only light
coming from the monitor’s glow.
He reached
into his pocket and pulled out her broken phone.
The cracked
screen reflected his face — older, guilt‑etched, determined.
He opened
the back panel, removing the SIM card carefully.
Tomorrow,
he’d buy her a new phone.
Tomorrow,
he’d take her home.
Tomorrow,
he’d start again.
He leaned
back in the chair, exhaling slowly.
For the
first time in years, the silence didn’t feel like a wall between them.
It felt like
a beginning.
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