So, let me tell you what happened, just like Id chat with you over a cuppa. She pressed play on her voicemailnot because she was nosy, mind you, but because the phone kept flashing 1 new message. Her husband was grumbling from the kitchen, complaining that this thing had beeped for the third time already. To avoid his grumbling, she just picked up her phone.
The recording started immediately, no hello or anything. A womans voice, raspy, like shed been crying or had a cold, spoke fast, stumbling over words:
Hello um Im not sure Ive got the right number. Listen, I really need you to come. Tonight. Hes at it again I cant do this alone. Please. If you dont come I I really dont know whatll happen. Please. Call me back as soon as you get this.
Then a click, silence, and the voicemail went back to its usual state. She checked the numberdidnt recognise it. No name, no hint at all.
From the kitchen, she heard his spoon clink against the saucepan.
Are you stuck in there? he called out. Dinner ready or is it another soon, soon?
She put the phone down next to the pack of brown rice and walked over to the hob. Water was boiling, the lid shaking. She turned the heat down, poured in the rice, stirred it so it wouldnt get gluey. She moved automatically, like her hands knew what to do better than her head did.
But that strangers voice stayed lodged inside her. Tonight. Hes at it again. And the I cant do this alone, delivered the way someone might hold onto a table just to stay upright.
She went back to the phone, replayed the message. Pressed it to her ear so her husband wouldnt hear. The words were simple, no details, but the desperation was all too familiar, so much so her throat seized up.
She pressed delete. Her finger hovered, shaky. The screen popped up: Delete message? Yes/No. She hit Yes and the notification disappeared.
A minute later, she opened her voicemail again. The message was still there.
She frowned, probably it hadnt gone through. She pressed delete once more, confirmed, watched the screen flickerthe recording vanished. She breathed out.
What are you messing about with the phone for now? her husband poked his head in, drying his hands on the tea towel. Always your lot messages, messages. Someone always wants something.
She lifted the lid off the saucepan, distracting herself with the steam.
Wrong number, she said. Nothing important.
Well, fine. He pulled out a chair and sat down. Are the kids coming round today?
Sam said he would, and Emily might drop by if she finishes work in time.
Her husband nodded, like hed decided it. She brought over the salad bowl, sliced some bread. The phone lay dark beside her, and she tried not to look at it.
Over dinner, the phone beeped again1 new message.
She froze with her fork in hand. Her husband heard it too.
Oh, for goodness sake, he said. Just turn it off.
She picked up her phone. Same message. Same number. Same recording, as if she hadnt deleted it. She felt a chillnot mystical, but the everyday kind: technology not doing what its told always breeds frustration and helplessness.
Must be the network playing up, she muttered and slipped off to the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
It was quiet in there. On the bedside table sat her glasses, hand cream, a stack of bills. She perched on the edge of the bed, played the message again. Those words hit her chest like a punch.
I need you to come. Tonight. Hes at it again
She pictured the woman whod called. Not some young girl, but someone older, worn out. With a child or alone, didnt matter. The main thing was, she was asking because there was simply no one else.
She deleted the message once more. Confirmed. Checked. It was gone.
Her hands trembled, not out of fear, but because she suddenly realised she wasnt listening out of curiosity. She listened because she secretly wished somebody would say to her, Come. I cant do this by myself. Or that she might say it to someone. But she never did. She always said something different.
She went back to the kitchen. Her husband had turned the telly on, blaring louder than needed, watching the news but barely seemed to take it in.
You alright? he asked, not looking away.
Im fine, she answered.
Fine was her all-purpose word for everything: tiredness, disappointment, fear, anger. Like a lid on a saucepan.
That night, she woke up when her husband rolled over and jabbed her elbow. She lay there listening to him breathe, thinking of that strangers voice. The phone was on the bedside table, charging. She reached over, unplugged it so it wouldnt click, and opened her voicemail.
The message was back again.
She sat up, feet on the floor, fingers cold. Played the recording on the lowest volume. It sounded like a whisper in the dark.
If you dont come, I I really dont know whatll happen.
She turned it off, staring at the blank screen for ages. Then, not turning the light on, she dialled the number. Hung up straight away. Her heart raced like she was about to break the rules.
She went back to bed, but sleep just wouldnt come.
In the morning, she got up before her husband. Put the kettle on, grabbed the cottage cheese from the fridge, sliced an apple. Her shopping list lay on the table: Milk, bread, chicken, washing powder, written in her hand. Looking at it, she got irritated, almost physically, like this list wasnt just groceries but her whole life: ticking off tasks, always for someone else.
Her mum rang at nine.
You didnt call me back yesterday, her mum said instead of hello. I waited.
She cradled the phone between shoulder and ear while wiping the table.
I was busy.
Busy, were you. And I suppose Im not busy? I need to go to the clinic, pick up a prescription. Can you come with me? Theres always a queue; I cant do it alone.
She was about to say Of course when that strangers plea popped into her head: I need you to come. Tonight. And how need sounds when you really cant do it alone.
Her mum carried on:
And my kitchen tap leaks. Tell your husband, will you, hes home anyway.
He wasnthe worked, though hed been coming home early a lot lately, irritable, feeling overlooked. He hated being asked. He liked being valued. And her mum could ask in a way that sounded like an order.
She shut her eyes.
Mum, I just cant today, she said.
Silence hung at the other end.
What do you mean, you cant? her mums voice got sharper. Youre not going to work, are you? Youve got the day off.
Inside, that familiar guilt crept up. Shed always been taught: if you can help, you must; if you dont, youre awful.
I have things to do at home, she said, hardly believing it herself.
What things? her mum was gearing up. Are you joking? I helped you all your life and you
She could have started explaining, promised to come after lunch, asked her husband, made it easier for everyone.
But suddenly, she was exhausted from building her whole life around other peoples need.
Mum, Ill call back later, she said, pressing end call.
Her hands shook. She put her phone down, glared at it as if it might bite.
Half an hour later, Emily texted: Mum, is it alright if I dont come today? Swamped at work. She read it and felt a wave of relief, then shame for feeling relieved.
Sam messaged: Ill drop by tonight. Need to talk about something. That sent a surge of tension; talk about something almost always meant money or help.
She went shopping. Outside, it was grey, people hustling past, all in their own worlds. Her shopping bag swung heavy with milk and chicken, and she thought about that woman whod begged for help. If she ever dared to ask, where would she go?
At home, her husband was at the computer. He looked up.
Youre early. By the way, your mum rang me. Said you were rude to her.
She put the bags on the floor, took off her coat.
I told her I couldnt today.
You actually couldnt? he chuckled. Youre at home, you could have gone, wouldnt have killed you.
She unpacked: milk in the fridge, chicken in the freezer, bread in the tin. Her moves were precise, like someone clinging to routine so nothing falls apart.
It does cost me, she said quietly.
What costs? he didnt get it.
She shut the fridge door. The click echoed.
It costs, constantly being available for everyone.
He leaned back in his chair.
Here we go again. You take it all on yourself, then get annoyed.
A tired kind of anger welled up.
I take it all on because if I dont, who will? You? The kids? Mum?
He waved her off. Always the accusations.
She had more to say but bit her tongue. She knew if she kept going, shed lose her temper, and shouting was the last thing she wanted. She walked into the living room, closed the door and sat on the sofa.
She rummaged for her phone in her handbag, played the voicemail. It was still there. As she listened, she felt the strangers words becoming her own justificationas if the message gave her permission to be annoyed.
She turned it off, put down the phone. Then got up and went to the kitchen, started chopping vegetables, turned on the oven, got the meat out. The routine soothed her.
That evening, Sam arrived. Took off his shoes, came into the kitchen, kissed her cheek.
Hiya. Smells lovely.
She managed a smile.
Take a seat.
Her husband came in, sat down. Sam put his phone on the table.
Mum, listen, Sam spoke up after they finished eating. I need you to well, help me out a bit. Im looking at a flat. The deposit. I know you guys dont have it easy, but
She looked at him: grown man, confident, used to his parents backing him up. Not a bad personjust raised in a home where alright then was always the answer.
How much? her husband asked.
Sam named the amount. Inside, she clenched. It wasnt just a number. It was their savingsmeant for repairs, for the dentist, for that dream trip together. It was her guarantee that her life wasnt entirely for others.
Well think about it, her husband said.
Sam looked at her.
Mum, you know this is my chance. Prices are going up.
She did know, and she knew that if they handed over the money, theyd have nothing left for themselves. Her husband would grumble again about money, shed save pennies for everyone else and not herself.
Her throat tightened.
I dont want to give away all our savings, she said.
Sam blinked.
What do you mean? he looked at his dad. Dad?
Her husband frowned.
Whats got into you? We always helped.
We did, she replied, as steady as she could. And Ive run out of steam living like we never have plans of our own. Im tired of decisions happening like Im bound to agree.
Sam slumped in his chair.
Mum, are you serious? Im not asking for nights out. Im trying to get a home.
I know, she said. And Im glad you want to. But I want things as well. I want us to have money for treatment, for repairs, for life. I want to be askednot just told.
Her husband stood up sharply.
Whats wrong with you? Making a scene in front of Sam?
Her face burned. Sam gave her that lookhurt and baffled, as though shed breached some silent contract.
Im not making a scene, she said. Im speaking up.
Well, too late now, her husband scoffed. Shouldve spoken up earlier.
That stung, because it was true and it hurt. Shed kept quiet for years. And now, when she finally spoke, they beat her with it.
Sam stood.
Fine, he said, pulling on his coat. Forget it. Thanks anyway.
He left, not slamming the door, but hard enough that the hallway hooks shivered. Her husband stayed in the kitchen, breathing heavily.
Happy now? he asked.
She didnt answer. Walked to the bedroom, closed the door, sat on the bed. The silence was thicknot frightening, just strange.
Her phone lay on the bedside table. She played the message. It sounded almost like a reproach.
If you dont come
She turned it off. It hit her: she was using somebody elses plea as a shield for her own boldness. As though without it, she couldnt say no.
Back in the kitchen, her husband was staring at the table. His mug was cold.
I dont want to be at war with you, she said.
He looked up.
So why kick up a fuss?
She sat opposite, hands flat on the table, not hiding them.
Because I cant keep quiet anymore, she said. Im worn out smoothing things over. Im tired of you talking to me like I owe you. And Im tired of us living as if our money and time belong to everyone but us.
He was silent. She saw his jaw working.
You think its easy for me? he managed at last. Im tired too. I
I know, she interrupted gently. But youve got used to me coping. Im not made of steel.
He looked away.
So what do you suggest? he asked, more softly.
She wasnt sure how to make everything better. She only knew she couldnt go back.
I suggest we decide things together, she said. And you really hear me when I say no. Not as a tantrum. As a boundary.
He was quiet a long time, then nodded, still not meeting her gaze.
Alright, he said. Lets try.
It wasnt a promisebut it wasnt the usual dismissive tone either. She felt something loosen inside her.
That night, she lay awake againthe faces of Sam, her husband, her mum spinning around, along with that strangers voice still buried in her phone.
In the morning, she dialled the number from the message. This time, she didnt hang up.
It rang for ages. Finally, a man answered.
Hello?
She froze. Her heart dropped.
Sorry, she said, I got a voicemail from this number. I think it was a mistake. A woman was asking for help.
There was a long pause.
Its not for you, the man replied sharply. Stay out of it.
And hung up.
She sat there, phone in hand, trembling. Not scared for herself, but helpless. She couldnt help that woman. She didnt even know who she was.
She opened her voicemail. The message was still there. She listened one last time, not hiding from herself. Then pressed delete. Confirmed. Waited. Checked. Gone.
She put her phone on the table and went into the bathroom. Washed her face with cold water, looked in the mirror. Her face was tired, but her eyes were clearer.
She called her mum.
Mum, she said when she picked up, I wont be able to go to the clinic with you today. Or tomorrow. Youll have to ask the neighbour or book online. I can show you how.
What, really her mum started.
I can help another way, she said, voice calm. But I cant drop everything every time.
Her mum paused, then spoke, wounded:
Well, live your life as you wish.
I will, she replied and hung up.
An hour later, she texted Sam: Lets sit down and talk properly. We can help a bit, but not with everything we have. I need you to understand that. She read it over before sending, and sent it.
Her husband came in, looked at her.
Where are you off to? he asked.
To the bank, she said. Im opening a separate account for our expenses and savings. So were clear whats what, and we can make decisions without feeling pressured.
He pulled a face, but didnt say dont be silly. Just sighed.
Alright. Let me know whats needed.
She put on her coat, grabbed her paperwork, double-checked the hob. In the hallway, she paused and listened to her own feelings. She was unsettled, but not empty.
The strangers voice was gone now. All that was left was her own voicefinally heard and no longer smothered.
