On my way home every afternoon, I call my mother. I actually enjoy the long drive because she’s such a good conversationalist.

Today, however, instead of her cheery “hello,” a message came on saying the phone number was not in service.

That was impossible. Mom’s had the same phone number for years.

So I called a few more times and got the same answer. Then I tried calling Mom on her cell phone. I knew this was useless because Mom can never find her cell phone, but I had to try.  

When the “leave a message” prompt came on, I hung up and called my brother, Joey, who lives near Mom. I asked him if there’d been a power outage, and he said there hadn’t been.

“I’m in town and I’ll go over there in a few minutes to make sure she’s okay,” he said, much to my relief.

This wasn’t the first time I’d called my younger brother to check on Mom. The first time was years ago after my father had passed away and Mom was living alone for the first time in her life. I called to check on her and she picked up the phone, breathless.

“Just a minute,” she said and I heard the phone drop to the floor, hitting chairs and the wall on the way down.

After five full minutes, she hadn’t returned, and I panicked.

What if she’d fallen and hit her head? What if she’d had a stroke? What if she was bleeding and no one was there to check on her?

These were the wild questions running through my mind because those were the worries she’d shared with me a few weeks earlier. Living alone is scary, especially for a widow.  

So I called my brother, Joey, who lived four blocks away from Mom’s house. My sister-in-law, Debra, answered the phone.

“I need Joey to go over to Mom’s right now and check on her,” I said, explaining what had happened.

“He’s on the ladder painting the house,” she said.

“Tell him to get off the ladder and get over there right now,” I said in true bossy pants, big-sister style.

And in true, younger brother “better-do-what-she-says” fashion, and because Joey’s one of the kindest people in the world, he jumped off the ladder, got in his car and drove like an Indy 500 race car driver over to Mom’s.

He burst in the back door, the paint still wet on his clothes, and yelled for her.

She had been in her wallpaper store, a small business she ran from the house.

“Your oldest daughter in Houston called and told me to get over here,” he said, still out of breath.

“Oh yeah, the doorbell rang at the same time the phone rang,” Mom said. “I meant to come back to the phone but I forgot.”

Joey looked at her, shook his head and stomped out to his car. He went home, got on the ladder and didn’t speak to me for two weeks.

He was entitled.

So today, thinking back on that event, I told him what had happened and he said he could be at Mom’s in less than 15 minutes. I thanked him, but in the meantime, called Mom. She picked up and said the cable service had been out all afternoon.

Without any explanation, I told her I’d call her right back, and I quickly punched in Joey’s number to tell him Mom was fine.

“And I didn’t have to get off a ladder to find that out,” he said, a laugh in his voice.

No matter what, I know I can count on my brother, Joey, to not only take good care of Mom but to never let me forget that when it comes to panicking, nobody holds a candle to his bossy-pants big sister.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.