“He’s not going to make it,” said his wife in a distant, cold voice. “You should come and speak to the doctor yourself if you don’t believe me. They have all the care he needs there. That’s what palliative care is for… everyone does it.”
Arthur was born two months prematurely and was immediately taken to the intensive care unit. At first, the doctors were tight-lipped, then some hope appeared—he started breathing on his own and began gaining weight. When he was discharged, he was still so tiny that Michael was afraid of even holding him, scared he might hurt him. But when little Arthur would wake up at night and softly cry, Emma wouldn’t get up, and Michael had to manage somehow. Emma refused to take him to doctors, saying it was their fault, after all, since she did all the tests and scans and was assured everything was fine. But how could it be fine? He was three months old and couldn’t even hold his head up.
Michael made the appointments, listened to incomprehensible medical terms that made his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, and took his son for tests, squeezing his eyes shut while the nurse tried to find a vein. Eventually, he reached genetic specialists in the city, who explained that Arthur could be helped, but he needed special medication. So, Michael took a job that his friend had been suggesting for a while, where the pay was good, despite Emma’s reluctance. But now, he had no choice. He left, thinking his son was with Emma, only to discover how wrong he was. His grandmother didn’t tell him anything, though he sensed she was hiding something.
“Everything’s fine, son, keep working,” she’d insist.
As it turned out, it was she who visited Arthur in the hospital all that time—talking to him, applying cream to prevent bedsores, and doing massages. Emma had gone back to work and hadn’t informed him. She only confessed when Michael told her he’d be home for a month’s leave.
“Emma, he’s our son!” he exclaimed. “What do you mean, palliative care? I’m working for a reason! The doctor said the medication…”
“What medication!” Emma snapped. “Have you seen him? You’ve been gone for six months, so don’t tell me what to do! I’m still young and want to live for myself. I can have another child and don’t want to spend my life changing nappies!”
Emma’s younger brother had cerebral palsy, and Michael admired how delicate and refined Emma looked after him, lifting him into his wheelchair and reading to him. It was why he fell in love with her. But it seemed her love was only vast enough for her brother.
“If you don’t bring our son home, I’ll file for divorce,” Michael warned.
“Go ahead! You think that scares me? I’ve managed without you all this while, and I’ll continue to do so.”
He didn’t believe she’d actually leave. But she did, even before he arrived home—handing the keys to his grandmother, who had long suspected everything but hadn’t told him. In those months, Emma had found someone to move in with.
“Don’t worry, son, we’ll manage. I’ll help you with Arthur, but you’ll need to find work nearby. I can’t handle him on my own.”
Michael understood this too—his grandmother was unwell and needed care herself, but he couldn’t be split in two to repay his debt to her.
His grandmother raised him. His mother, a reasonably successful singer, had left him with his grandmother for a month and never came back for him. She sent money regularly while he was at school, but apparently thought it unnecessary afterwards. In his youth, Michael believed his mother loved him, but her life was just complicated: concerts, filming, fans… He even went to one of her concerts—bought a huge bouquet of roses, dreaming of giving it to her and hearing her exclaim from the stage—that’s my son!
But it didn’t turn out like that: at first, she didn’t notice him. When she finally took the bouquet, she didn’t even look and tossed it aside. Michael had spent nearly his entire salary on those roses. After the concert, he barely managed to reach backstage and tried to explain he was her son, but her staff wouldn’t let him through. They told him she was tired, and she’d call him. He waited a month by the phone, but she never called.
Now he rarely thought of her, and if her song came on the radio, he’d immediately change the station, despite once knowing all the words. His grandmother was both a father he never knew and a mother. And now, she became a mother to Arthur—looking after him as best she could, while Michael took a job with normal hours, so she wouldn’t tire too much. Emma didn’t call, showing even less regard than his mother—at least she pretended to acknowledge his existence.
“Michael, I had the most vivid dream today,” his grandmother shared one afternoon. “Your grandfather, God rest his soul, asked me to bring him water from the well. I told him my legs don’t work, but he said they do here. I looked down, and the grass was so green and soft, like down. I walked across it, and my legs moved without pain! I fetched the water and glanced into the well at the end. I saw you in a suit and tie, standing next to a lovely woman with dimples. Wearing a veil. I have a feeling you’ll find yourself a good wife, not like that flighty girl!”
“Come on, Gran! After how my own mother abandoned Arthur, who would agree to help?”
But the following day, his grandmother didn’t wake up. So, as it turns out, the dream was for her—the water she now brought to his grandfather, not little Arthur.
Michael felt lost. His mother helped with the funeral and even attended, but it was costly, and he was embarrassed to ask her for more. A couple of weeks later, she called him and said,
“I’ve found a nurse for your son. I’ll pay her, don’t worry.”
Her generosity shocked Michael, and initially, he wanted to refuse, to say he needed nothing from her but thought better of it—pride takes a backseat when you’re running out of medication for your son.
He was expecting a mature, experienced woman—he’d seen plenty in hospitals while taking Arthur for appointments, and they all resembled his grandmother in her youth—efficient, down-to-earth, knowing their work well. But his mother seemed to have skimped on funds, sending a fresh graduate instead—a girl who admitted right away it was her first job.
“Don’t worry, I’ve completed special courses and know what I’m doing,” she said with determined cheer, though her voice quivered.
He could have called his mother to complain that this girl wouldn’t manage with Arthur, but he wasn’t keen to talk to her. So, Michael decided to wait it out, maybe her courses weren’t entirely useless.
The young nurse’s name was Mary. At first, she called him every half hour.
“Mr. Mitchell, is it normal for him to hiccup like this?”
“Hold him upright. And place something warm near his back, like a heated towel.”
“Mr. Mitchell, he’s breathing heavily, and I’m worried!”
“Mary, use the nebulizer—I’ve shown you already…”
And so it went on.
But after a couple of weeks, she got the hang of things and managed better. However, Michael had to take another job—her hours ended at six, and he had to make it back in time. So he ended up on a construction site with a more flexible but off-the-books schedule. They promised good pay, but when…
Weekends were now spent with his son—the nurse couldn’t work weekends, even for extra pay, as she was studying Chinese and planned to score an internship in acupuncture there. Mary was amusingly naive, not like Gran who trusted the TV implicitly—Mary believed everything the internet told her.
On Arthur’s birthday, Mary even came on her day off—bringing him a balloon he adored and a hand-knit onesie. Michael was moved and invited her in for tea—he’d bought a cake for the occasion. Afterward, they went for a walk together—dressed Arthur in his new outfit, nestled him in the stroller, and tied the balloon to it for him to see. Michael knew his son might not see another birthday, and the thought made it hard to breathe. But right then, as he walked down the sunny street, the balloon tugging toward the sky in the gentle autumn breeze, his heart felt light.
He only noticed Emma late, as they paused at a crosswalk, and his eyes fell on her heavily made-up face. She was with friends, likely heading to some event. She didn’t see him at first, then turned once her friends pointed. Her face flushed with a mix of emotions, and she hurried across the street without a word.
“Who was that?” asked Mary, noticing his tense expression.
Michael slowly exhaled and replied, “No one.”
“Well, good then,” she said, smiling.
It was the first time he’d seen her smile. Dimples lit up her cheeks, triggering a memory—but what was it? The blue balloon against the equally blue sky danced as energetically as his heart.
His pay was still delayed. Arthur’s medication was running low, and Michael was cornered—he had to call his mother.
“Haven’t I helped you enough?” she snapped. “Do you know what I’m paying that girl? You call yourself a man and can’t even provide for your son?”
Humiliation caught Michael’s breath. What, truly, was he if he couldn’t support his own child? He hung up, shoulders sagging, wishing his grandmother could walk in, lay a hand on his shoulder, and assure him everything would be alright…
Light footsteps approached, and Mary appeared at the kitchen doorway, holding an envelope.
“Here,” she said, placing it on the table.
“What’s this?” Michael asked, perplexed.
“For Arthur’s medication.”
He was bewildered—what was going on?
“Your mother paid me. She paid well, so you know. I was saving for a trip to China, but for now, I’ve no use for the money—I live with my parents and have everything I need.”
“But your trip…” Michael stammered, taken aback.
Mary shrugged.
“Well, I’m not going anywhere now…”
She offered a shy smile, dimples gracing her cheeks. Suddenly, Michael recalled his grandmother’s dream, and blushed, unsure why.
“Take it,” Mary insisted gently. “It’s the right thing to do.”
“I’ll repay everything,” he murmured, clearing his throat before adding. “Since you’re not going to China, maybe you’d join us this weekend? We could go for a walk like last time…”
Mary beamed again and replied, “I’d love to…”
