Mum, why do you keep sending me all these pictures? Good morning, Happy Name Day My phone keeps freezing! Cant you just message me if its important? Or dont message at all if theres no news? Im busy working, I dont have time to read your poems about kittens!
Matthew tossed his smartphone onto the desk with a frustrated sigh. The screen still glowed, showing a card with a fluffy bunny and the words: “Hope your day is filled with sunshine!”
He was thirty-five and a lead software developer at a major tech firm in London. His life revolved around deadlines, Zoom calls, agile sprints, and an endless flood of information.
His mum, Mary Collins, lived in a quaint village nearly two hundred miles away. Shed only started using WhatsApp six months earlier, after Matthew handed down his old smartphone.
Since then, his digital existence had become a barrage of gifs.
Every morning there was a pixelated “cuppa tea” greeting. Each evening concluded with a “guardian angel” meme.
At first, Matthew replied politely with emojis. Then he started ignoring them. Today, though, he snapped.
Mary read her sons message.
Dont message if theres nothing important.
She gazed out the window as the grey autumn drizzle washed the village green. What news did she have?
Her cat, Whiskers, caught a mouse?
Mrs. Green from number eight argued with the postman again?
Her blood pressure shot up to one-eighty this morning?
Were these things worth telling her sonthe one building the digital future?
She sighed softly, dabbed her eyes with the corner of her handkerchief, and deleted the Good night card shed prepared to send later.
Alright, Matt. I wont, she typed slowly with one finger, trying to hit the correct letters. Then, she deleted that too. Why bother him at all?
She simply left the phone on her dresser.
Matthew luxuriated in the silence. No buzzing in his pocket. No silly videos popping up.
She finally took the hint, he thought.
A week passed.
On Friday night, Matthew was at a pub with friends.
My mum sent me a video last night showing how to pickle cucumbers, one colleague joked. Said Id need it one day!
Everyone laughed.
Matthew pulled out his phone. He reopened his chat with his mum.
Last message from him: OR DONT MESSAGE AT ALL.
Status: Last online: 6 days ago.
A strange feeling pricked at Matthew. His mum never turned the internet off. She always said, Just in case you call, I dont want to miss it.
He dialled her number.
Long, drawn-out rings. No answer.
He tried again. And again.
A cold, rising dread gripped him.
He sped across the motorway into the night, breaking every rule in the book.
He called Mrs. Green, the neighbour.
Mary, is my mum alright?!
Oh, Matthew Havent the foggiest. Knocked on her door two days ago, thought shed popped to the shops. No light on. Maybe shes gone to visit her cousin in the next town?
Matthew knew: his mum had no cousin in the next town. She had no one but him.
He pulled into the village at 3 a.m.
The house was dark. The gate was unlatched.
Matthew rushed up to the door. Locked from the inside.
Mum! Mum, open up!
He broke a side window, not caring as the glass sliced his hands, and climbed in.
The house was silent, only the old mantel clock ticking in the gloom.
His mum lay on the sofa in her favourite dressing gown.
She was sleeping.
Matthew hurried over and grabbed her hand.
Still warm.
Mary opened her eyes, misty and confused.
Matt? Whatevers wrong? Has something happened? The news?
He slid to the floor, resting his forehead on her knees, shaking.
Mum Why werent you answering? Why havent you been online?
Well, you said not to message, she whispered uncertainly, stroking his hair. And I suppose the phone ran out of charge. I left it on the dresser and thought best not to bother you. I imagined you working
He switched on the lamp.
There, on the dresser, was the lifeless smartphone.
Beside it was a notebook. Matthew opened it.
Inside, a “message diary”his mum had been writing the messages she wanted to send, but hadnt.
Tuesday. Matthew, the sun came out today. Remember our walks to the park when you were little? You dropped your ice lolly and cried. Love you always.
Wednesday. My blood pressures a bit high. Took a tablet. Wont trouble you about it, youre busy. Just know Im proud.
Thursday. Dreamt of your dad last night. He asked me to tell you to take care of yourself.
Matthew read the clumsy handwriting, his cynicism crumbling away inside him.
All those silly pictures, countless emojis, happy little cardsthey were her way of saying: Im here. Im okay. Im thinking of you.
It was her digital heartbeat.
He had silenced it.
If shed had a stroke, he wouldnt have known. Because he told her not to call, not to bother.
Matthew stayed that weekend.
He fixed the fence. Sorted out the television.
And bought her a new phone, with an extra-large screen.
Mum, he said as he left, send them to me.
Send what, love?
Everything. Cats, cards, the weather, pie recipes. Every day. Promise? Every morning. I want to know youre having a good day. For me, that matters. It means youre there.
Driving away, his phone chimed.
WhatsApp. Mum.
A picture: a fat ginger cat in glasses, holding a bunch of daisies. Caption: Safe journey, son!
Matthew smiled. For the first time in ages, a real smile.
He hit the microphone button:
Thanks, Mum. The cats brilliant. Ill call when I get there.
The truth is, those persistent messages from parents arent spamtheyre a lifeline, their only bridge into your world, one thats moved on without them. Dont break that line. Because one day your phone will fall silent forever, and youd give anything for just one of those daft little cards that says Good morningbut there wont be anyone left to send it.
