“I knew you could hear me, Mum,” said six-year-old Oliver, tugging at his grandmother’s sleeve.
“Gran, will you tell me a story?” he asked, his big blue eyes pleading.
“Only a short one. It’s well past your bedtime, love. You won’t wake up for nursery tomorrow,” Grace replied, smoothing the duvet over him.
“I will!” Oliver insisted.
Grace switched off the main light, leaving only the warm glow of the bedside lamp. She grabbed a worn book from the shelf, perched her reading glasses on her nose, and settled back on his bed.
“Not like that—lie next to me,” Oliver said, shuffling over to make space.
“I’ll fall asleep,” Grace chuckled, but his pleading look melted her resolve. She stretched out beside him, and Oliver immediately curled into her side with a yawn.
As Grace read, she kept an ear on Oliver’s steady breaths. When she was sure he was asleep, she carefully slipped out of bed and tiptoed from the room, easing the door shut behind her.
In the kitchen, she touched the side of the kettle—still warm. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat at the table. *Where’s Emily? It’s nearly eleven. She said she’d be back by nine. Maybe she stayed at her friend’s? She’d have called. Should I ring her? What if she’s driving? Last thing I need is her distracted at the wheel—God forbid.* She crossed herself quickly before the little crucifix on the shelf. *I’ll wait a bit longer.*
She took a sip and winced. The tea had gone cold and bitter. Tipping it down the sink, she moved to the window, staring into the thick, unsettling darkness beyond.
Suddenly, her phone erupted with a loud, cheery ringtone. Grace startled, nearly dropping it in her rush to silence it before it woke Oliver. She froze when she saw the unfamiliar number flashing on the screen—not Emily’s face.
Scammers? Too late for that. Maybe Emily’s phone died? Heart pounding, she answered.
“Hello?”
“This is Detective Inspector Carter. Is Emily Whitmore your daughter?”
“Yes. What’s happened? Why—” Grace’s throat tightened.
“How may I address you?” The officer’s voice was calm, detached.
“Grace. Grace Whitmore.”
“Grace, I need you to stay calm—”
“How can I stay calm? The police don’t call at night for no reason! Is this some sort of scam? Going to ask for money? Because I haven’t got any, and even if I did—why aren’t you saying anything?”
“Emily Whitmore was involved in a collision on the motorway…”
The rest blurred. Grace clutched her chest, her heartbeat jagged and frantic. The inspector kept speaking, but the words didn’t stick. A deep breath caught in her throat—she coughed, tears burning.
“Just tell me…” Her voice was a ragged whisper. “Is she alive?”
“Yes, but she’s in a coma. Critical condition.”
“Which hospital?” The words scraped out.
“St. Mary’s, but don’t come now. She’s in surgery. Come tomorrow, the doctor will explain. Do you know why she was on the motorway tonight?”
“Wait—how do you know about her son?”
“From her phone contacts. Now, about the motorway—why was she driving there?”
“I don’t… She went to a birthday party. I told her not to go…” Grace shook her head, forgetting he couldn’t see. “She promised she’d be back by nine. Her boy’s waiting… Oh God, what do I tell him when he wakes?”
“A birthday party… Could she have been drinking?”
“How *dare* you! She’s responsible—knew Oliver was waiting, knew she had to drive home! She wouldn’t—” Grace’s voice faltered. *Would she?* “Maybe she changed her mind about staying over…”
“Sorry to disturb you.” The line went dead.
“Disturb me? More like *destroy* me.”
Grace nearly bolted for the hospital—then remembered Oliver upstairs. She wobbled to her feet, numb, and yanked open the medicine cupboard. Fumbling with the calming drops, she lost count, shook the bottle hard, and splashed too much into a cup.
“Better safe than sorry,” she muttered, topping it with water and gulping it down without flinching.
Sinking onto a stool, she clutched the bottle.
“Lord, spare Emily. Don’t take her from her boy. Don’t leave him orphaned.” She crossed herself again, fervently, before the crucifix.
She prayed until exhaustion pulled her under.
“Gran! Wake up! Gran. Where’s Mum?”
Oliver shook her shoulder. Grace surfaced from a thick, sticky sleep, yesterday’s call crashing back.
“She didn’t come home. Rang to say she’s staying over,” she lied, though she knew the truth couldn’t wait.
“You’re lying. I heard you talking. It wasn’t her.”
Grace pulled him close, hiding her tears. “Ollie… Mum’s in hospital.”
Oliver wrenched free. “Is she sick?”
“Yes. She had an operation. I—maybe you could stay with Auntie Maggie next door? I’ll pop to the hospital quick—”
“No! I’m coming!”
“Alright. Wash up, then. I’ll put the kettle on.” She nudged him toward the bathroom, then swayed on her feet. *Perfect timing.* The kettle screamed as she rushed to check her blood pressure—spiking, just as she thought. Where were her pills?
By the time they reached the hospital, Grace’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
“Critical condition. The surgery went well, but she’s still in a coma,” the doctor said softly.
“Is Mum gonna die?” Oliver blurted.
“We’re doing everything to prevent that,” the doctor reassured.
Grace pressed her fingers to her lips, stopping short of crossing herself. “Can we see her? She adores him. If she hears his voice… People in comas hear things, don’t they? It might help…”
The doctor eyed them both, hesitant, then nodded. “Five minutes. No tears. Understood?”
Oliver nodded, eyes already wet.
Grace babbled as they hurried down the hall, Oliver’s small hand crushed in hers. “I *told* her not to go…”
Outside the ICU, the doctor reminded them: no noise, no crying. They barely listened, straining toward the door.
Even at the bedside, Grace barely recognized Emily—bandages, bruises, a tangle of tubes.
“Em, love, we’re here. Oliver’s with me. Wake up, darling, we’re waiting…” Grace bit back a sob.
Oliver just stared.
Adults never tell the truth. But I *know* she can’t hear us. If she could, she’d wake up. What if she dies? Will you send me to foster care? You’re *old*,” Oliver mused on the bus ride home.
Grace only caught the last bit. “I’m not old, I’m *experienced*. And who put that idea in your head? You’re staying with me. When Mum wakes, I’ll tell her what you said. You’ll be mortified.”
For days, Grace visited, chattering to Emily about Oliver, about hope. Oliver begged to come, then withdrew, sitting alone at nursery, doodling. Grace warned the teacher to leave him be.
Hope flickered lower each day. Then Emily’s ex showed up—Oliver’s father. Rare visits, always empty-handed. Scruffy, unshaven. Grace smelled the drink on him.
“Which hospital? Maybe I can help,” he said.
“How? By hurrying her along? *That* you could do.”
“Is that any way to talk? I came to do right by my boy—”
“Right by him? Since when?”
“I’m taking him while Em’s laid up. I’m his *dad*. You’re not well, Grace. What if you drop dead? Who’s he got then?”
“Over my *body*. You’ve never cared. Think you’ll remember to fetch him from nursery? Read him a bedtime story?”
“I’ll manage.” He smirked. “You look peaky. Blood pressure playing up? You shouldn’t stress. Courts don’t side with *elderly* guardians.”
“Courts favour stability. You’ve got none. Now *leave*.” She shoved him toward the door.
“You’ll regret this.”
Grace slammed the door. *Would a court really give him Oliver?*
At nursery, Oliver ran to her. “Has Mum woken up?”
“Not yet. But she will.” Grace hesitated. “Your dad came. Wanted you to live with him.”
Oliver shook his head violently.
“Good. If he turns up here, *don’t* go with him. I’ll tell your teacher.”
At the hospital, Oliver pressed his hand into Emily’s. “Mum, I’m here. You hear me? DadOliver’s voice trembled as he whispered, “I knew you’d come back, Mum,” and as Emily’s fingers finally curled around his, Grace let out the breath she’d been holding—because at last, after the longest winter, spring had come.
