The phone sat on the small wooden table by the window, its cord neatly coiled, its silence familiar. Every Friday evening, around seven, she would sit beside it, a cup of tea growing cold, her eyes on the clock, her heart rehearsing the sound of his voice.
He was her only child. Her reason, her rhythm. She had worked two jobs to send him to school, walked miles to make ends meet, and still found time to make his world feel safe. When he got the overseas offer, she smiled at the airport, waving with both pride and pain, saving her tears until the doors closed behind him. "Call me every week," she said. And he did.
At first, the calls came like clockwork, full of laughter, stories, and new beginnings. But then the pauses came. One week missed, then two, then a month. His voice, once strong, grew shorter and heavier. Until one day, it stopped altogether.
She waited anyway. Every Friday, seven o'clock. The same chair. The same tea. The same unbroken hope.
That afternoon, something felt different. The air was still, her hands trembled slightly. When the doorbell rang at seven sharp, irritation flared. What if he called while she was away from the phone? She hurried to the door, ready to dismiss whoever stood there.
But when she opened it, the words froze on her lips.
There he was.
Her son, though barely recognisable. His once carefree face was shadowed by fatigue, his eyes hollow but searching for something only she could give. His hands shook as he tried to speak, but no words came.
She didn't ask. She didn't need to. Her arms knew before her mind did. She pulled him close, holding him as tightly as she had when he was five and afraid of the dark. His sobs came in waves, raw and unfiltered. Her tears, as always, fell only when unseen.
They walked together into the small living room, the old phone still resting beside the cold cup of tea. He sat where he used to do his homework. She sat beside him, their silence louder than any call could have been.
Questions screamed inside her. What had broken him, what had he carried alone, how long had he suffered? But one thought rose above the rest: all can be mended, except death.
And so she stayed beside him, calm and still. She needed no explanations. He was home. Alive. And once again, she had a reason to keep the tea warm on Fridays.