“Rice and eggs again, Mum? I can’t stand this wretched life any longer!” he shouted in fury.
His mother flinched, startled. The spoon slipped from her trembling fingers. She lowered her gaze, hiding her shame.
“This is all we have, son…” she whispered weakly.
The boy slammed his plate onto the table. Rice scattered across the floor. A few grains clung to his mother’s face.
“Then eat it yourself, this filth!” he spat, turning away.
She said nothing.
Kneeling, shaking, she began gathering the grains from the floor—one by one.
As if saving what little remained… of both food and dignity.
Then she went to her room.
Kneeling beside the bed, as she did every night.
And she prayed. For him.
But her son no longer felt her love.
Saw no worth in her.
Days later, he announced:
“I’m leaving. I’ve had enough of this beggar’s life. I’m going to London—I want more.”
She didn’t stop him. Didn’t cry.
But with a broken heart, she clutched his hand and pleaded:
“Just promise me one thing—answer my calls. I beg you, son… I beg you.”
He sighed, irritated.
Then she added, her voice cracking:
“I’m tired… I feel my time is running short.”
“The day I stop calling… it’ll be because I’m gone.”
He wrenched his hand free—and walked away.
Not even a proper goodbye.
———
London was nothing like his dreams.
He worked everywhere—carrying crates, guarding pubs, mixing cement at building sites.
A meal was a luxury. Money, even rarer.
But every day… the phone rang.
“Hello, son… how are you?”
“Busy, Mum. Bye.”
And he’d slam the receiver down. Sharper each time. More distant.
Until one day… the phone didn’t ring at all.
And that silence… was louder than any words.
He stared at the screen all day.
Evening came. And he thought:
“She’s dead.”
He didn’t cry.
Didn’t even try to call back.
Couldn’t be bothered with the funeral.
No money for it. Even if he had it—he wouldn’t have gone.
———
Days passed. He knew—his mother was gone.
Tired of poverty, he accepted an offer:
“Easy work. Just drive a van,” a mate said.
The van was full of drugs. He knew.
But he wanted quick cash.
That night, he adjusted the mirror, gripped the wheel…
Then the phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He answered.
“Son… don’t do this. Don’t go.”
“Come back. Now. I beg you.”
The voice… it was hers.
His heart hammered.
“Mum!? You’re alive!?”
“Listen to me. Go home. Stay safe.”
And she hung up.
He tried to call back.
But a cold, automated reply tightened his chest:
“Number not recognised.”
He stumbled from the van, drenched in sweat, struggling to breathe.
Sold what little he had—clothes, shoes.
Set up a stall on the street. Saved just enough to return home.
———
When he arrived, the house was silent.
Neighbours looked at him with pity.
“Your mother passed a month ago…”
He collapsed onto the pavement.
“That’s not possible… she called me yesterday!”
“*Impossible*, son. She’s been gone.”
He walked inside.
The air still held her scent.
The quiet was unbearable.
In the bedroom—two worn grooves in the floor by the bed.
Where she had knelt every night… praying for him.
In the corner—a sheet of prayers.
His name—first. Every day.
From the day he left… to her last.
He dropped to his knees.
Wept—harsh, breathless sobs.
He rushed to the kitchen, splashed his face… then saw it.
A folded paper on the table.
Not a letter.
A prayer. In her handwriting:
“*Lord, I feel my time is near.*
*If I die, I can no longer pray for my son.*
*So I entrust him to You.*
*If ever he’s in danger, I beg You—warn him.*
*Call him at this number.*”
And below… was his phone number.
Then—his phone buzzed.
A notification:
“*Van ambushed. Driver killed. Cargo stolen.*”
A photo of the same van he was meant to drive that night.
He fell to his knees.
And understood.
That call… had come from heaven.
God had heard a mother’s last prayer.
And saved the son who didn’t know how to love.
If your mother still calls you—answer.
Before it’s too late.
