Can’t Be Deleted

She tapped play on the screen, not because she enjoyed eavesdropping, but because the notification hung stubbornly: 1 new message. Her husband grumbled from the kitchen, complaining that that blasted thing was beeping for the third time. Wanting to deflect his irritation, she picked up her phone.

The recording started immediately, skipping pleasantries. A womans voicehoarse, broken, as if choked by tears or the remnants of a coldrushed through the words, uneven and urgent:

Hello Its Im not sure Ive dialed right. Listen, I need you to come. Today. Hes done it again. I cant manage on my own. If you dont come, I honestly I dont know whatll happen. Please. Ring back when you get this.

A click, and the voicemail delivered faithful silence. She glanced down at the number: unknown. No name, no contact.

A spoon clattered against the saucepan.

Are you just going to stare at that thing all evening? her husbands voice was louder. Dinner, or is it another just a minute?

She placed the phone beside the packet of rice and moved to the cooker. The water was boiling fiercely, the lid rattling. She turned the heat down, poured in the rice, stirred to prevent clumping. Each movement was automatic, as if her hands had memorised the steps better than her mind.

But inside, the strangers voice lingered. Today. Hes done it again. And that I cant manage, uttered as if she was clinging to the edge of the table.

She returned to the phone, replayed the message, holding it close so her husband wouldnt overhear. The words were simple, lacking detail, but the plea for rescue was achingly familiar. Her throat tightened.

She pressed delete. Her finger hesitated. Delete message? Yes/No flashed. She chose Yes, and the notification vanished.

A minute later, she opened voicemail again. The message was still there.

She frowned. Perhaps she hadnt confirmed. She deleted anew. Yes. The screen flickered, and the recording disappeared. She exhaled.

Whats with you and that phone? her husband peered into the kitchen, towel in hand. Always your ruddy messages. Someones always after you.

She lifted the lid, filling the kitchen with steam.

Wrong number, she replied. Nothing important.

Good. Are the kids coming today?

David said he would. And Emma, if she finishes work in time.

He nodded as if that was his own decision. She set the salad bowl on the table, cut bread. The phone sat silent beside her, its screen dark. She tried not to look.

As they ate, the phone pinged again: 1 new message.

She froze, fork mid-air. Her husband noticed.

Bloody hell, he said. Just turn it off.

She checked the phone. The same message, same number, same recording, as if it had never been erased. A shiver slid down her backnot supernatural, just familiar frustration with technology that refused to obey, sparking annoyance and helplessness.

Must be the network playing up, she muttered, slipping into the living room with her phone.

The bedroom was silent. Glasses, hand cream, a stack of bills awaited on the bedside table. She perched on the edge of the bed and played the message. The words struck her chest:

I need you to come. Today. Hes done it again

She imagined the speaker, not a young girl but a womantired, perhaps with or without children, it didnt matter. What mattered was the desperation, because there was no one else.

She deleted the message, checked to confirm. Gone.

Her shaking stemmed not from fear, but from the revelation: she listened, not out of curiosity, but out of longingfor someone to call her and say, Come over. I cant manage. Or for her own ability to say it. But she never did. Her words were always different.

She returned to the kitchen. The television blared, louder than necessary; her husband watched the news, but his gaze was distant.

Whats up with you? he asked, not looking.

Im fine, she replied.

Fine was her blanket term, covering exhaustion, hurt, fear, anger. It was the lid to her boiling pot.

That night she woke as her husband shifted, elbowing her slightly. Lying there, listening to his breathing, she thought about the strangers voice. Her phone charged quietly on the bedside table. She took it off, so it wouldnt beep, and opened her voicemail.

The message was there again.

She sat up, feet cold against the floorboards. She played the recording softly, like a whisper in the dark.

If you dont come, I honestly I dont know whatll happen.

She switched it off but sat staring at the dark screen. Then, without turning forth the light, she dialled the numberimmediately hung up. Her heart thudded as if shed committed a sin.

Sleep eluded her.

She got up early. Boiled the kettle, took out cheese and apples, sliced them for breakfast. Her shopping list lay on the table, written in her neat hand: milk, bread, chicken, detergent. She stared at it and felt a near-physical irritation, as if the list wasnt just groceriesit was her life: by the numbers, always for others.

Her mother rang at nine.

You didnt call back last night, Mum began, skipping greeting. I was waiting.

She tucked the phone between shoulder and ear, wiping crumbs from the table.

I was busy.

Busy, eh? So Im not busy? I need to get to the clinic for an appointment. Can you come with me? Therell be a queue, I cant manage alone.

She was about to say of coursethen the strangers words echoed: I need you to come. Today. How that need sounds when you really can’t manage.

Mum kept going:

And another thing, the taps dripping. Tell your husband to come round. He’s always at home.

He wasnt always at home. He worked, but lately he returned earlier, restless, feeling underappreciated. He hated being asked. He wanted to be valued. Mum could turn a request into an order.

She closed her eyes.

Mum, I cant today, she said.

Silence.

What do you mean you cant? Mums voice became sharper. Are you going to work? Its your day off.

Guilt welled inside. Shed long been taught: if you can help, you must. If you dont, youre selfish.

Ive things to do at home, she said, though she doubted her own excuse.

What things? Mum pressed. Have you lost your mind? I did everything for you, and now

She could have apologised. Promised to visit after lunch. Asked her husband. Done what was expected.

But suddenly she was tired of living around others needs.

Mum, Ill ring you later, she cut in, and pressed end call.

Her hands shook. She placed the phone on the table, wary as if it could bite.

Half an hour later, Emma messaged: Mum, is it okay if I dont come today? Busy at work. Relief washed over her, then shame for feeling it.

David wrote: Ill drop by this evening, need to discuss something. Her stomach tightened. Discuss meant money, or help.

She took the shopping bag and went out. Outside, the sky was grey; people hurried past, lost in their own thoughts. She carried milk and chicken home and wondered what shed do if she ever had the courage to ask for help, like the woman on the voicemail.

Her husband was at the computer. He looked up.

Youre back early. By the way, your mum called me. Said you were rude.

She set the shopping down, removed her coat.

I told her I couldn’t today.

You really couldnt? he smirked. Youre home all day. Couldve gone, wouldnt cost you anything.

She put milk in the fridge, bread in the tin. Her movements were precise, as someone clinging to order so as not to unravel.

It does cost, she whispered.

What costs? he asked, puzzled.

She shut the fridge doorclick.

It costs to always be convenient for everyone else.

Her husband leaned back in his chair.

Oh, here we go. You always take it all on yourself, then complain.

Tired frustration simmered insidenot fiery, but worn.

I take it on because if I dont, who will? she said. You? The kids? Mum?

There you gocomplaints, he waved a hand.

She wanted to say more, but stopped herself. If she began now, shed shout, and she hated shouting. She left for the living room, closed the door, sat on the sofa.

The phone was in her bag. She fished it out, played the voicemail. The strangers plea felt like her own justificationas if, so long as the message existed, she had permission for her irritation.

She switched it off and placed the phone beside her. Eventually she went to the kitchen, occupying herself with peeling vegetables, preheating the oven, preparing meat. Routine brought safety.

In the evening, David came. He removed his shoes, kissed her cheek.

Hi, Mum. Smells good.

She gave him a listless smile.

Take a seat.

Her husband joined them. David pulled out his phone, laid it beside him.

Mum, listen, he began after dinner, I need a bit of help. Looking at a flatneed a deposit. I know its a big ask, but

She watched himgrown, confident, used to parents bailing him out. He wasnt bad, just raised in a home where she always said all right.

How much? her husband asked.

David named the amount. Inside, she winced. It wasnt just a number: it was their savings, earmarked for repairs, dental work, maybe a rare getaway. She kept it as a tiny assurance that their lives belonged to them, not everyone else.

Well think about it, said her husband.

David looked at her.

Mumyou realise its an opportunity. Prices arent going down.

She did. But she also understood: if they handed it over, their safety net would vanish. And, once again, shed be silent when her husband complained there was nothing left, and shed scrimp for everyone.

A lump filled her throat.

I dont want to give all our savings, she said.

David blinked.

What do you mean? He turned to his father. Dad?

Her husband frowned.

Whats wrong with you? he asked her sharply. Weve always helped out.

We have, she said, trying to keep her voice steady. And Im tired of living as if weve no plans of our own. Im tired that decisions always go as if Im obliged to agree.

David slumped in his chair.

Mum, are you serious? Im not asking for a handout to spend on parties. I want a flat.

I know, she replied. And Im glad you do. But so do we. I want us to have money for ourselvesfor treatment, repairs, just life. I want to be consultednot presented with a done deal.

Her husband stood abruptly.

Whats gotten into you? his voice was loud. Are you trying to make a scene in front of our son?

Her cheeks burned. David stared at her, hurt and bewildered, as if shed broken the family code.

Im not making a scene, she said. Im speaking.

Youre doing it too late, her husband shot back.

The remark stungtrue and mocking. Shed been silent for years, and now, her first words were thrown back at her.

David rose.

Fine, he said, pulling on his coat. Forget it. Thanks anyway.

He left, shutting the door hard enough that the coat rack trembled. Her husband stood in the kitchen, breathing heavy.

Happy now? he asked.

She didnt respond. She returned to the bedroom, sat on the bed. The silence was thick, but not frighteningjust unfamiliar.

Her phone waited on the nightstand. She played the voicemail. The words sounded accusing.

If you dont come

She turned it off. It hit her: she used the strangers plea as a badge for her braveryas if, without it, she had no right to say no.

She headed to the kitchen. Husband sat, eyes lowered to his mug of cold tea.

I dont want to fight with you, she said.

He looked up.

So why did you?

She sat opposite, hands visible on the table.

Because I cant keep biting my tongue, she said. Im tired of smoothing things over. Tired of being spoken to like Im duty-bound. Tired of our money and time belonging to everyoneexcept us.

He was silent, jaw tense.

You think its easy for me? he finally replied. Im fed up too

I know, she interrupted softly. But youre used to me enduring it. Im not made of stone.

He looked away.

So what are you suggesting? he asked, quieter.

She didnt have an answer that fixed everything. Just knew she didnt want to retreat to how things were.

I suggest we decide together, she said, and that you listen when I say no. Not as a whimbut as a boundary.

He sat quietly, then nodded, still not looking at her.

Fine, he murmured. Lets try it.

It wasnt a promise, but it also lacked the usual contempt. Relief flickered inside.

That night, sleep was elusive. Faces spun in her mindDavid, her husband, Mum, the unknown womans voice.

Next morning, she rang the number from the message. This time, she didnt hang up.

It rang for ages, then a man answered.

Hello?

She hesitated. Her heart dropped.

Sorry, she said. I got a voicemail from this number. A womans voice, asking for help. Maybe it was a mistake.

Silence.

Not meant for you, the man snapped. Keep out of it.

He hung up.

She sat with the phone in hand, tremblingnot from fear, but from helplessness. She couldnt help that woman. She never even knew her name.

She opened voicemail. The message was there. She listened, for the last timeno longer hiding. Then deleted. Confirmed. Checked. Gone.

She left the phone on the table, moved to the bathroom, washed her face with cold water. In the mirror, her face was tired but her eyes clearer.

She called Mum.

Mum, she said, when her mother answered, Im not coming to the clinic today. Or tomorrow. Youll have to ask the neighbour, or book online. I can help you with that.

Youre quite Mum began.

I can help another way, she said, calmly. But I wont drop everything every time.

Mum fell quiet, then responded with wounded pride: Well, do as you wish.

Thats what Ill do, she replied, and hung up.

An hour later, she texted David: Lets sit down and talk. We can help a bit, but not with everything weve saved. It matters to me that you understand. She reread before sending, then pressed send.

Her husband emerged.

Where are you off to? he asked.

To the bank, she said. I want to open a joint account for our expenses and savings. So things are clearno snap decisions.

He grimaced, but didnt call it nonsense. Just sighed.

Fine. Let me know whats needed.

She put on her coat, grabbed her papers, checked shed turned off the hob. At the doorway she paused, listening within. She felt uneasy, but not empty.

The strangers voice was gone. Only hers remainedher own voice, finally heard and not suppressed.