Chapter 1: The Call That Shouldn’t Exist

My mom was the prettiest girl on the line—everyone said so—but fate was cruel to her. Less than two years after I was born, she was murdered, her body left in pieces.

Even now, sometimes when I close my eyes, I try to picture her face, the way it must have looked in those old Polaroids—hair pulled back, a smudge of grease on her cheek, still smiling that wild, easy smile. But memory is a slippery thing. All I really have are faded stories and the ache of something missing. Sometimes I wonder if I ever really knew her at all.

Twenty years later, one night, I stumbled across a dusty box under my bed. Inside was an old flip phone.

It was the kind of relic you’d see in a pawn shop window, plastic scratched and dulled. Weird, right? I felt a strange nostalgia just holding it, like I’d found a piece of my own lost history. The box smelled faintly of old laundry and lemon cleaner—my grandma’s scent, somehow still lingering after all these years.

The moment I picked it up, it buzzed to life with an incoming call. The caller ID read: Mom.

I nearly dropped it, I swear. The screen flickered, casting a greenish glow on my hand. For a second, my heart thudded so loud I was sure the neighbors could hear. I stared at the name—Mom—like it might change if I blinked. But it didn’t.

"Come pick me up at the factory gate. If you don’t come soon, it’ll be too late."

Her voice sounded distant, tinny, but unmistakably real. It was the kind of voice that made you want to run out into the night, just to see if she’d really be there.

Later that night, the phone rang again. A strange woman on the other end. "Honey, I’m off my night shift. Can you come get me?"

The words tumbled out so fast, I almost thought it was a wrong number. Her tone was tired, but there was a thread of hope in it—like she’d been waiting all day for someone to answer.

"You’ve got the wrong number."

I was about to hang up when she pressed, "Who are you? Why are you using my husband’s phone?"

Something in her voice sharpened. It wasn’t just confusion—there was suspicion, maybe even fear, like she was bracing for bad news.

"Who’s your husband?"

She said a name, slow and careful: "Frank Hargrove."

I froze. Frank Hargrove was my dad, and this phone was definitely his.

It felt like the air got sucked out of the room. My mind raced back. Every story, every scrap of memory. Every faded photo. How could this be happening?

But how could I have a mom? My mom had been dead for years.

I snapped, "You scammer! Call me again and I’ll call the cops."

My voice came out harsher than I meant it to, but I was shaking, you know? It was late, and my nerves were shot. I didn’t want to admit how much the call rattled me.

I hung up, but the call came in again.

This time, my hands were clammy as I answered. The phone felt suddenly heavier, as if it carried the weight of old secrets. I hesitated, but curiosity won out.

She started right off: "So you’re the homewrecker, huh? Shameless! Of all the men in the world, you had to steal someone else’s?"

Her words hit me like a slap. Seriously? I almost laughed. But something about her insistence made my skin crawl.

I was speechless. "Do you have any proof Frank Hargrove is your husband?"

She didn’t answer, but soon sent over a blurry picture message.

The picture loaded slowly, each pixel sharpening the dread in my gut. I squinted, trying to make out the faces. My heart hammered as the image cleared.

I stared at that tiny photo for a long time.

You know the kind—slightly crumpled, colors faded at the edges. A couple, smiling awkwardly at the camera, arms around each other. Their happiness looked almost fragile.

When I finally saw the two people in it clearly, my hand slipped and the phone crashed to the floor.

The thud echoed in my tiny apartment. I scrambled to pick up the phone, my fingers shaking. It was as if I’d dropped a piece of my own past.

In the photo were my parents, twenty years younger.

It was unmistakable—the way Dad’s hair curled at his ears, Mom’s wide grin, her hand resting on his shoulder. My throat tightened. It was them. It was really them.

"Do you believe me now? Frank Hargrove really is my husband! Give him the phone!"

Her words were insistent, almost desperate. I could just see her, standing at a payphone, rain streaking down the glass—waiting, hoping.

Trying to steady myself, I called her name: "Linda Mayfield, is that you?"

The silence on the line stretched out, then she blurted, "How do you know my name? Did Frank tell you?"

Her suspicion was thick, but under it? Hope. Like she wanted to believe someone remembered her.

My lips trembled. "Because you’re my mom."

I could barely get the words out. My voice cracked, and for a moment I thought she’d hang up. The truth felt raw, exposed.

This time she was stunned, then cursed me out: "Don’t call me that! I don’t have a daughter your age. Call me whatever you want—it won’t work! Homewrecker."

Her denial was fierce—almost funny, if it didn’t hurt so much. She sounded young, stubborn—the kind of woman who wouldn’t take crap from anyone.

My voice shook. "Let me ask you, what’s the date today?"

I held my breath, the phone pressed tight to my ear. I needed to know—needed something to anchor me in reality.

"August 13, 2005, you lunatic!"

Her words landed like a punch. I stared, dumbfounded, at the busy tone.

I was born in 2003, and my mom died when I was two.

The math hit me like a cold wave. If it was really 2005 on her end, then somehow… this call was reaching across decades. I shivered, goosebumps prickling my arms.

After a moment of confusion, my first instinct was to verify, because this had to be some kind of sick prank…

I quickly called my dad: "Dad, how did Mom die?"

My voice was barely steady. I could hear the thrum of anxiety in my own words, but I tried to sound casual. I needed answers, not more lies.

It was noisy on the other end—poker chips clattering, beer bottles rattling everywhere.

It sounded like Dad was in the middle of one of his late-night games, the kind where time blurs and nobody’s really paying attention to anything but the next hand.

My dad’s voice was raspy from years of smoking and drinking: "Are you nuts, asking this out of nowhere?"

He sounded half-annoyed, half-bewildered, as if I’d interrupted something important. His tone made me grit my teeth.

"Just tell me."

I tried to keep my tone flat, but my hands were shaking. I could almost see him, slouched at the table, cigarette dangling from his lips, squinting at the cards.

"She died of illness," he mumbled, then suddenly raised his voice, "Twenty bucks… wait, I’m in!"

The chaos of cards and laughter spilled through the line. It was like he’d already forgotten I was there, swept up in the game. For a second, I hated him for it.

With the chaos of cards in the background, I gripped the phone and lowered my voice: "I just got a call from her. She wants you to pick her up after her night shift."

I expected him to laugh it off, but instead, there was a sudden silence. I could almost hear his breath catch.

"What? How did you get a call from her?" He sounded suddenly anxious.

His voice sharpened, all the bravado gone. For once, he sounded afraid. I could picture him sitting up straighter, looking over his shoulder.

"It was the old phone in the box under the bed. I charged it, and the call came through…"

I tried to keep my voice steady, but my heart was pounding. I needed him to believe me, needed him to admit something—anything.

There was a loud bang, and my dad hung up.

I stared at the phone, stunned. He was just... gone.

When I tried to call back, his phone was already off… Frustrated, I sent him the photo and went to bed.