Mum, why do you keep sending me these pictures all the time? Good morning, Happy Name Day My phones freezing because of them! Cant you just text something when its important? Or just not message at all if theres nothing going on? Im working, I dont have time to read your poems about kittens!
James flung his phone onto the table, annoyance in every movement. The screen still glowed, displaying a card with a fluffy bunny and the words: Hope your day is bright!
He is thirty-five now, lead developer at a major London tech company. His world revolves around deadlines, Zoom calls, sprints, and a relentless barrage of data.
His mum, Mary Turner, lives three hundred miles away in a small village in Cumbria. She picked up WhatsApp six months ago, after James gave her his old smartphone.
Ever since, his life has felt like a battleground of GIFs.
Each morning begins with a pixelated cuppa. Each evening ends with a guardian angel meme.
At first, James replied politely with emojis. Then he started ignoring them. Today, he finally snapped.
Mary read her sons message.
Dont write unless its important.
She glanced out of the window. Steady grey autumn rain fell across the sheep field. What news did she have?
The cat, Oliver, caught a mouse?
Mrs Davies next door argued with the postman again?
Her blood pressure shot up to one eighty this morning?
Were those really updates for a son shaping the digital future?
She sighed quietly, wiped a tear with her handkerchief, and deleted the Good night card shed prepared for the evening.
All right James. I wont, she typed laboriously with one finger, hunting for each letter. Then she deleted it. Why bother him?
She simply set her phone down on the sideboard.
James revels in the silence. No more buzzing in his pocket. No more silly videos.
She finally got the message, he thinks.
A week passes.
On Friday night, hes sitting in a pub with his mates.
My mum sent me a video yesterdayhow to pickle cucumbers, laughs a colleague. Said Ill need it some day.
Everyone chuckles.
James pulls out his phone. Opens the chat with his mum.
His last message: OR JUST NOT MESSAGE AT ALL.
Status: Last seen: 6 days ago.
A strange pang hits James. Mum never switched off her WiFishe always said, Just in case you call, I dont want to miss it.
He dials her number.
Long, drawn-out rings. No answer.
He tries again. And again.
Now a cold, clammy worry starts creeping from his stomach up to his throat.
Hes speeding up the motorway through the night, pushing every speed limit.
He calls Mrs Davies next door.
Mrs Davies, have you seen Mum?
Oh, James love Im not sure. Knocked a couple of days ago, thought shed gone to the shops. Lights been off. Maybe she went to stay with her sister in Carlisle?
But James knows: his mum doesnt have a sister in Carlisle. She doesnt have anyone, except him.
He bursts into the village at three in the morning.
The house stands dark. Gate ajar.
James rushes to the door. Locked from inside.
Mum! Mum, its me! Open up!
He breaks a window, not even feeling the glass cut his hands. Climbs through.
Inside, all is quiet except the ticking of the old clock.
Mum is lying on the settee in the living room, still in her dressing gown.
Shes asleep.
James is at her side in a moment, grabbing her hand.
Its warm.
Mary Turner opens her eyes, confused and frightened.
James? Whats wrong? Has something happened? War?
James slides to the floor, his forehead pressed to her knees, shaking.
Mum why didnt you answer the phone? Why werent you online?
Well, you said not to message she whispers, gently stroking his hair, and the phone it mustve gone flat. I left it on the sideboard. Didnt want to bother you. Thought youd be working.
James switches on the light.
On the sideboard, the dead mobile sits.
Next to it, an exercise book. James opens it.
Its a message diary:
Mum has been writing the things she wanted to send to him, but never did.
Tuesday. James, the sun came out today. I remembered how we used to go to the park when you were little. You dropped your ice-cream and were so upset. Love you.
Wednesday. My blood pressures playing up. Took a tablet. Wont bother you with it, I know youre busy. Just want you to know Im proud of you.
Thursday. Dreamt of your father. He asked me to tell you to take care of yourself.
James reads these lines, shaky handwriting and all, feeling the wall of cynicism in him crumble.
Those silly pictures, the emojis, the awkward greetingsthey were her way of saying, Im here. Im alive. I care.
It was her digital heartbeat.
And hed stopped it.
If shed had a stroke, he wouldnt have known. Because he had told her to stop sending signs of life.
He stays the weekend.
Mends the fence. Fixes the telly.
Buys Mum a new phone with a big screen.
Mum, he says before leaving, send me things.
What sort of things, love?
Anything. Cats, cards, weather reports, pie recipes. Every day, yeah? Every morning. I want to know youre having a good morning. That matters to me. Because it means youre there.
He drives back to the city.
His phone pings.
WhatsApp. Mum.
A picture: a fat ginger cat in glasses holding a bunch of daisies. Text: Safe journey, son!
James smiles. For the first time in ages, its genuine.
He taps the mic icon:
Thanks, Mum. Cat looks ace. Ill call when I get there.
Moral:
Those messages from parents arent spam. Theyre the fragile thread linking them to your worlda world where they no longer belong. Dont cut it. The day will come when your phone is silent forever, and youd give anything for just one more silly good morning cardbut therell be no one left to send it.
