“Mum, how many times do I have to say it?!” Emily flung her mobile onto the table, its screen flickering before going dark. “Every single day! Every blasted day!”
“Sweetheart, I don’t mean to…” Margaret tightened her grip on her old flip phone, the numbers worn away from years of use. “I just forgot again. My memory’s not what it used to be.”
“Forgot?!” Emily jumped up from the sofa, pacing the room. “Mum, I’ve shown you a hundred times! Press the green button when the phone rings. Green! Not red, not any other button—green!”
“I pressed the green one…”
“No, Mum, you pressed red because I heard the short beeps. That means you hung up on me!”
Margaret looked helplessly at her daughter, then at her phone—small, black, with buttons that always seemed too tiny or too bright. She remembered the days when there was one phone for the entire terrace house, sitting in the hall, shared by all the neighbours. Things were simpler then.
“Love, maybe I just don’t need this phone?” she murmured. “We managed fine without them back then.”
“Mum!” Emily stopped, her face twisted with worry. “What if something happens to you? What if I need to reach you? What if—”
“Alright, alright,” Margaret relented. “I’ll keep trying. Show me again.”
Emily sat beside her, taking the phone. Her hands were slender, nails neatly trimmed, while Margaret’s were spotted with age, fingers knotted from years of work.
“Look, Mum. When it rings, the screen lights up. See? Green button on the left—that’s ‘answer.’ Red on the right—‘decline.’ Green means yes, red means no.”
“Green for yes, red for no,” Margaret repeated. “What if I mix them up?”
“You won’t,” Emily sighed. “Think of it like traffic lights—green for go, red for stop.”
“Right,” Margaret nodded, though the analogy didn’t quite click. “And how do I call you?”
“Mum, we’ve been over this. Tap my picture in the contacts. See? I set it up—here’s my photo with ‘Emily’ underneath. Tap that, and it rings me.”
Margaret stared at the screen. The photo showed Emily smiling, bright and young—nothing like the tired woman before her now.
“What if I forget where your picture is?”
“It’s at the top of the list! The very first one!”
“Alright. And if the phone breaks?”
“It won’t. Look, I’ll write my number on the fridge in big letters. You can call from the landline.”
“We don’t have a landline. You said mobiles made them pointless.”
“Then ask a neighbour.”
“Which neighbour?” Margaret frowned. “They’re all young, busy with work. No time for chatting.”
“Mum,” Emily dropped onto the sofa, covering her face. “I don’t know what to do. I call every day, and you don’t answer. I panic, rush over—and you’re fine, just pressed the wrong button.”
“I’m sorry, love. I don’t mean to worry you.”
“I know you don’t. But you do.”
Margaret studied her hands—the same ones that once cooked Sunday roasts, scrubbed floors, cradled baby Emily. Now they fumbled over a tiny device.
“Remember,” she said suddenly, “your toy phone? Pink, with huge buttons. You’d spend hours ‘calling’ Grandma in Yorkshire.”
“I remember,” Emily smiled faintly. “I learned numbers on that thing.”
“And now I’m the one learning,” Margaret said softly. “How the tables turn.”
“Mum,” Emily moved closer. “Let’s try again. Slowly. I’ll call now, and you answer. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Emily dialled. Margaret’s phone buzzed, her daughter’s photo flashing on-screen.
“See? I’m calling. Now press green—here.”
Margaret hesitated. She knew it was green. But her thumb drifted toward red.
“No, not that one!” Emily caught her hand. “This one!”
“Sorry, I know it’s green.”
She pressed it. A dial tone hummed, and suddenly Emily’s voice came through—both beside her and from the phone.
“Hello? Mum, can you hear me?”
“Yes!” Margaret grinned. “It worked!”
“Well done!” Emily hung up. “See? Easy. Let’s try again.”
They practiced for half an hour. Seven out of ten calls, Margaret got it right. Three times, she still hit red.
“Mum, why do you press red? You know it’s green.”
“I do. But my hand… it just goes there. It’s bigger, or brighter, maybe.”
“We could get you an easier phone. Big buttons, simple screen.”
“No,” Margaret said quickly. “You gave me this one. I’ll get used to it.”
“Alright.” Emily kissed her cheek. “I’ve got to go. We’ll practice tomorrow.”
Once alone, Margaret studied the phone. Small, light, baffling. She tried calling Emily—heard ringing, panicked, hung up. By evening, she could dial, but answering still left her flustered.
Next day, Emily arrived tense.
“Mum, you called fifteen times! I thought something was wrong!”
“I was practicing.”
“You don’t need to actually call! Just pretend.”
“But how will I know I did it right?”
“If it rings properly, you did. Short beeps mean you messed up.”
“Oh. But I wanted to hear your voice.”
Emily sat beside her. “I call every day, Mum. But I can’t be here constantly. I’ve got work, a life.”
“I know, love. I don’t expect you to be. It’s just… sometimes I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“Everything. The phone breaking. Falling ill. Forgetting your number.”
“It’s saved in your contacts. And written in your notebook, on the fridge—”
Margaret nodded, but unease lingered. She used to memorise every number—neighbours, doctors, Emily’s school. Now she struggled with her own.
“Numbers were shorter back then,” she mused. “Five digits, maybe six. Now it’s all these elevens…”
“You don’t need to memorise them, Mum.”
“But what if I forget how the contacts work?”
“You won’t.”
“I might. Yesterday I searched for my glasses—they were on my head. Last week, I blanked on Mrs. next-door’s name, and she’s lived here twenty years.”
“That’s normal, Mum. Everyone forgets things.”
“You don’t.”
“Oh, I do!” Emily laughed. “Last week I forgot my shopping list. Stood in Tesco completely lost.”
“That’s different. You’re busy. I’m just… old.”
“Age isn’t a prison, Mum. My friend’s gran is seventy-five—posts on Facebook, sends photos to the grandkids.”
“She’s clever, then.”
“So are you. You just need patience.”
Margaret studied her daughter—her father’s sharp features, but her own gentle stubbornness.
“Alright,” she said. “Let’s try again. But don’t get cross if I muck it up.”
“I won’t. Promise.”
They drilled calls, then texts—too tricky.
“Stick to calls for now,” Emily said.
Margaret sighed. “How did we manage before mobiles?”
“Families lived together. Grans, parents, kids—all under one roof.”
“Aye,” Margaret murmured. “Three generations in our old terrace. Cramped, but never lonely.”
“D’you want to move in with me?”
“No, love. You’ve your own life. I just get lonely sometimes.”
“Invite someone over. Join a club. The library does knitting groups.”
“Knitting? I’d stab myself with the needles.”
Emily laughed. “You’ll learn. Like with the phone.”
Margaret considered it. She’d spent her life as a secretary, then raising Emily. Never had hobbies. Now she had time—but no hobbies to fill it.
“Maybe,” she conceded. “But let’s sort the phone first.”
Emily hugged her. “Tell you what—take my old one. Big buttons, simple screen. I’ll keep this as a spare.”
“But you gave me this one.”
“And I’ll get you another. Whatever helps.”
“Ta, love. You’re too good to me.”
“I love you, Mum. I just want you safe.”
Margaret squeezed her hand. “I’m safe with you. Even when we row about phones.”
They laughed. Emily fetched the spare phone—bulky, basic. Margaret turned it over, relieved.
“This feels better,” she said. “Like it’s made for me.”
“Brilliant. Tomorrow I’ll transfer your contacts.”
“For now, let’s have tea. Made your favourite—apple cake.”
Emily’s eyesThey sat together, the warm scent of cinnamon filling the kitchen, and for the first time in ages, Margaret felt like maybe—just maybe—she could keep up with the world after all.
