“Mum, why do you keep sending me those pictures again? Good morning, Happy Saints Day My phone freezes because of them! Cant you just message me about real things? Or not at all, if theres nothing new? Im working, I have no time to read your silly rhymes about kittens!”
Adam threw his smartphone onto the desk, frustration etched in his face. The screen still glowed, displaying a card with a fluffy rabbit and the caption: Hope your day is bright and sunny!
He was thirty-five, a lead developer in a renowned London tech firm. His life revolved around tight deadlines, endless Zoom meetings, agile sprints, and a relentless torrent of data.
His mum, Mary Smith, lived in a quiet Suffolk village nearly two hundred miles away. Shed learned to use WhatsApp about six months ago, when Adam gifted her his old mobile.
Since then, his world had been invaded by GIFs.
Each morning began with a pixelated coffee cup. Every evening ended with a blushing guardian angel.
Hed started responding politely with smileys, then shifted to ignoring her. Today, he snapped.
Mary read her son’s message.
Dont message if theres nothing new.
She gazed out the window, where grey autumn rain streaked the glass. What news did she have?
The cat, Mr Whiskers, caught a mouse?
The neighbour, Mrs Violet, argued with the postman again?
Her blood pressure spiked to one-eighty in the morning?
Is that news for a son shaping the digital future?
She sighed softly, dabbing at a tear with the corner of her handkerchief, and deleted the card shed painstakingly prepared for tonight, wishing him a peaceful sleep.
Alright, Adam. I wont, she typed slowly, one finger seeking each letter. And deleted the message. Why bother him?
She set the phone on the dresser, untouched.
Adam relished the silence. No buzzing in his pocket. No pointless videos.
Shes finally got it, he thought.
A week went by.
Friday night, Adam sat in a pub with his mates.
My mum sent me a video yesterday about pickling cucumbers, chuckled his colleague. Said I might need it someday!
Everyone laughed.
Adam pulled out his phone. Opened his mums chat.
His last message: Or not at all, if theres nothing new.
Status: Last online: 6 days ago.
A strange pang hit Adam. Mum never turned off her internet. She always said: In case you ring, I don’t want to miss it.
He dialed her number.
Lengthy rings. Each longer than the last.
No answer.
He tried again, and again.
Anxiety, icy and sticky, rose from his stomach to his throat.
Adam sped his car down the dark motorway, breaking every limit.
He rang Mrs Violet.
Violet, wheres my mum?!
Oh, Adam dear I dont know. I knocked two days ago, thought shed gone to the shop. No lights on. Maybe she went to visit her cousin in Ipswich?
Adam knew his mum had no cousin in Ipswich. In truth, she had no one save him.
He arrived in the village at three in the morning.
Her cottage stood dark. The gate was left unlatched.
Adam rushed to the door. It was locked from inside.
Mum! Mum, open the door!
He smashed a window, oblivious as shards cut his hands, clambered inside.
Silence. Only the old clock ticked.
Mary lay on the sofa in her nightdress.
She slept.
Adam rushed over, grabbing her hand.
It was warm.
Mary blinked awake, confused and scared.
Adam? What’s happening? Is there a war?
Adam slid to the floor, pressing his forehead to her knees. He was shaking.
Mum why didnt you pick up? Why werent you online?!
You told me not to message, she whispered, stroking his head, bewildered. And the phone must have run out. I put it away and didnt touch it. Didnt want to bother you. I thought you were working.
Adam turned on the lamp.
Her dead smartphone sat on the dresser.
Beside it, a notebook. He picked it up.
A message diary.
His mum had written everything she wanted to send him, but never did.
Tuesday. Adam, the sun came out today. Remember when we went to the park when you were little? You dropped your ice cream and cried. Love you.
Wednesday. My blood pressure is acting up. Took my tablets. Wont burden you, youre busy. Just so you know, Im proud of you.
Thursday. Dreamt of your dad. Said to remind you to take care of yourself.
Adam read those wobbly lines, feeling the stone wall of cynicism crumble inside him.
Those silly pictures, smileys, harmless cards her way of saying, Im here. Im alive. Im thinking of you.
Her digital heartbeat.
And hed silenced it.
If shed had a stroke, he wouldnt have known. Because hed forbidden her from giving him any sign.
Final scene.
Adam stayed for the weekend.
He mended the garden fence. Tuned the telly.
Bought her a new phone, with a big, bright screen.
Mum, he said before leaving. Send me stuff.
What stuff, love?
Everything. Cats, cards, weather, pie recipes. Every day. Hear me? Every morning. I need to know youre having a good morning. It’s important. It means youre here.
On his drive back to London, his phone buzzed.
WhatsApp. Mum.
A picture: a chubby ginger cat in glasses holding a bouquet of daisies. Caption: Safe travels, son!
Adam smiled. Sincerely, for the first time in ages.
He pressed the voice button:
Thanks, Mum. The cats brilliant. Ill call when I get home.
Lesson:
Annoying messages from parents arent spam. Theyre the only thread that ties them to your world a world where they dont belong anymore. Dont cut it. One day, your phone will fall silent forever, and youd give anything to hear from them again.
