The mother flinched at the scream.
The spoon slipped from her shaking hands, and she lowered her face, attempting to hide her shame.
— It’s all we’ve got, son… — she murmured in a fading voice.
The boy smashed the plate onto the table. The rice spilled across the ground.
Some grains clung to his mother’s cheeks.
“Then eat this filth yourself!” he yelled, turning away from her.
She kept silent. She only bent down, trembling, gathering the grains with her fingers. As though desperate to save what little was left… of food and dignity.
Later, she went into his room.
As every night, she knelt beside the bed.
And she prayed. For him.
But the son felt no love anymore. He no longer saw her worth.
Days later, he rose and declared:
— I’m leaving. I’m sick of this miserable life. I’m off to the big city. I want something better.
She neither begged nor wept.
Yet, heartbroken, she gripped his hand tightly and said:
— Promise me you’ll answer my calls. Please, son… please.
She pleaded.
He rolled his eyes.
Then she added softly, her voice weak:
— I’m so tired… I sense my time running out. The day I stop calling… means I’m gone.
He pulled his hand away and walked off.
He didn’t even say a proper goodbye.
The big city betrayed his hopes.
He worked wherever possible: hauling boxes, guarding a club, mixing cement at sites.
Food was scarce. Money scarcer. But daily, his phone rang.
It was his mother.
— Hello, son… Are you okay?
— I’m busy, Mom. Bye.
And he hung up, irritated, rushed.
Until one day, the phone was silent.
And the silence… screamed.
He stared at it all day. When night came, he thought:
“She di:ed.”
He didn’t shed a tear.
He didn’t call back.
He made no effort to attend the funeral. He had no money. And even if he had, he wouldn’t have gone.
Days passed. And he knew: his mother was gone.
Months later, worn down by poverty, he accepted an offer:
— Easy money. Just drive, — said an acquaintance.
The car was loaded with drugs. He knew.
But he agreed. He craved a fast escape.
That night, he entered the car, adjusted the seat, gripped the wheel…
And his phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
He picked up.
— Son… don’t go. Don’t make that trip. Turn back. Give it up. Now.
The voice… was hers.
His heart stopped.
— Mom!? You’re alive?
— Please, son. Hear me. Come home.
And… take care of yourself.
Then the line cut.
She hung up.
He tried to redial.
But the message was cold:
“Nonexistent number.”
He jumped out, sweating hard. His chest tight.
He sold off what little he owned. Some clothes. A pair of sneakers.
He scraped enough cash for the trip back.
On arrival, the street was unusually quiet.
Neighbors looked at him sadly.
— Your mother passed away a month ago…
He collapsed on the pavement, powerless.
— Impossible… She called me yesterday! She spoke to me!
— No, son. She left long ago.
He entered the house. In the living room, her scent lingered. In the bedroom, silence suffocated.
By the bed, marks on the floor. She knelt there daily… to pray for him.
In a corner, a prayer list. Her name was at the top, checked off faithfully. From her final days… until d3ath took her.
He knelt there. His hands quivered. Tears streamed endlessly.
He rushed to the kitchen, splashed his face at the sink… and saw it.
On the table, a folded sheet. Not a letter. A prayer.
Written in her own hand:
“Lord, I feel d3ath approaching.
And if I die, I can no longer pray for my son.
So… I give him to You.
If danger comes, warn him.
Call this number.”
And there it was. His number.
At that instant, the phone buzzed.
Breaking news:
“Car riddled with bullets. Driver d3ad. Cargo vanished.”
The image… was the same car he had planned to drive.
He fell to his knees.
And understood.
The call… had come from heaven.
God had answered a mother’s last prayer to save an ungrateful child.
Moral
There are loves that call daily…
And we… ignore.
But when that love falls silent, the world grows colder. Harder. Lonelier.
If you still receive that call, answer it.
Before it never rings again.
