“Rice and eggs again, Mom?

“Rice and eggs again, Mom? I can’t take this misery anymore!” he shouted angrily.

The mother flinched at the sound of his voice. The spoon slipped from her trembling hands. She lowered her head, trying to hide her shame.

— “It’s all we have, son…” — she whispered, barely audible.

The young man threw the plate violently onto the table.
The rice scattered across the floor.
Some grains stuck to his mother’s face.

— “Well, eat this garbage by yourself!” — he yelled, turning his back.

She said nothing.
She just bent down, trembling, and began to pick up the grains from the floor with her fingers. As if trying to save what little was left… of food and of dignity.

Later, she went to her room.
She knelt, just like she did every night, beside her bed.
And she prayed. For him.

But the son no longer felt love. He no longer saw any value in her.

A few days later, he announced:

— “I’m leaving. I’m tired of this miserable life. I’m going to the big city. I want something better.”

She didn’t beg him to stay.
She didn’t cry.
But with her heart in pieces, she grabbed his hand firmly and pleaded:

— “Promise me you’ll answer my calls. Please, son… please.”

She begged.

He rolled his eyes in annoyance.

Then she added, her voice weak:

— “I’m tired… I feel like my time is running out. The day I stop calling you… it’s because I’m gone.”

He pulled his hand away and left.
He didn’t even say a proper goodbye.

The big city wasn’t what he had imagined.

He worked wherever he could: hauling boxes, guarding a nightclub, mixing cement at construction sites.
Food was scarce. Money even more so.
But every day, his phone would ring.

It was his mother.

— “Hi, son… Are you okay?”

— “I’m busy, Mom. Bye.”

And he would hang up, annoyed, rushed.

Until one day… the phone didn’t ring.

And the silence… screamed.

He stared at the phone all day.
Night fell. And he thought:

“She died.”

He didn’t cry.
He didn’t try to call her back.
He didn’t even make an effort to attend her funeral. He had no money. And even if he did… he wouldn’t have gone.

Days went by. Deep down, he knew: his mother was no longer alive.

Months later, tired of his miserable life, he accepted an offer:

— “It’s easy money. You just have to drive,” said an acquaintance.

It was a car loaded with drugs. He knew it.
But he accepted. He wanted to rise quickly in life.

That night, he got into the car, adjusted the seat, placed his hands on the steering wheel…

And his phone vibrated.

Unknown number.

He answered.

— “Son… please don’t go. Don’t make that trip.
Come back. Walk away from this. Now.”

The voice… it was hers.

His heart skipped a beat.

— “Mom!? Are you alive!?”

— “Please, son. Listen to me. Come back home.
And… take care of yourself.”

And she hung up.

On him.

He tried to call back.
But the recording was cold:

“This number does not exist.”

He jumped out of the car, sweating, chest tightening.

He sold what little he had: some clothes, a pair of sneakers.
He made some street sales and gathered just enough to return home.

When he arrived, the street was quieter than usual.
The neighbors looked at him with pity.

— “Your mother passed away a month ago…”

He collapsed on the sidewalk.

— “It can’t be… She called me yesterday! She spoke to me!”

— “Impossible, son. She’s been gone for a while.”

He entered the house.
In the living room, her scent still lingered.
In the bedroom, the silence was suffocating.

Beside the bed, there were marks — the prints of her knees on the floor.
She had knelt there… every day.
Praying for him.

In a corner, there was a prayer list.
His name was at the top, marked every day.
From the day he left… until the very last day of her life.

He knelt down in that spot.
His hands trembled.
The tears fell uncontrollably.

He rushed to the kitchen, washed his face at the sink… and then he saw it.

On the table, there was a folded piece of paper.

It wasn’t a letter. It was a prayer.

Written in her handwriting:

“Lord, I feel I am near death.
And if I die, I won’t be able to pray for my son anymore.
So… I entrust him into Your hands.
If one day he is in danger, please, warn him.
Call this number.”

And there it was. His number.

At that very moment, his phone vibrated.

A news alert:

“Car riddled with bullets. Driver dead. Cargo missing.”

The image… was of the car he was supposed to drive that night.

He fell to his knees.
And understood.

The call… came from heaven.

God used the last prayer of a mother to save an ungrateful son.

✨ Moral of the story
There are loves that call you every day…
And we… ignore them.

But when that love falls silent,
the world becomes colder. Harder. Lonelier.

If you still receive that call, answer it.
Before it stops ringing forever.