I knew you could hear me, Mum.
“Gran, will you tell me a story?” asked six-year-old Oliver.
“Only a short one. You should’ve been asleep ages ago. You’ll never get up for nursery tomorrow,” Martha said, tucking the blanket around him.
“I will,” Oliver promised.
Martha switched off the overhead light, leaving just the bedside lamp on, grabbed a book from the shelf, slipped on her glasses, and sat back down on the edge of his bed.
“Not like that, lie next to me,” Oliver said, shuffling over to make space.
“I’ll fall asleep,” Martha sighed—but the pleading look on his face made her give in. She lay down beside him, and instantly, Oliver cuddled closer, yawning.
She started reading, pausing now and then to listen to his soft breathing. When she was sure he was asleep, she carefully got up and slipped out of the room, gently closing the door 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 on earth is Emily? It’s nearly eleven, and 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? Distracting her could cause an accident. God forbid.” She crossed herself toward the little cross on the shelf. “I’ll wait a bit longer.”
She took a sip and winced—the tea had gone cold. Tipping it down the sink, she walked to the window, staring into the thick, unsettling darkness outside.
Suddenly, her phone blared to life with an upbeat ringtone. Startled, Martha nearly dropped it, scrambling to silence it before it woke Oliver. Frozen, she stared at the screen—unknown number. Not Emily’s face smiling back at her.
Scammers? Too late for them. What if Emily’s battery died? She answered.
“Hello. Detective Inspector Harris speaking. Are you related to Emily Watson?”
“She’s my daughter. What’s happened? Why—” Martha’s voice trembled.
“How should I address you?” the detached voice cut in.
“Mrs. Martha Hughes.”
“Mrs. Hughes, please try to stay calm—”
“How can I stay calm? The police don’t call in the middle of the night for nothing. Or are you some fraudster? Going to ask me for money next? Well, I haven’t got any, and if I did, you wouldn’t get a penny. Why aren’t you saying anything?”
“Emily Watson has been involved in a crash on the motorway…”
The rest of his words blurred. Martha pressed a hand to her chest, heart thudding unevenly. The inspector kept talking, but she barely registered. She took a shaky breath—then coughed, tears springing to her eyes.
“Just tell me,” she croaked. “Is she alive?”
“Yes, but she’s in a coma. It’s serious.”
“Which hospital?” The words scraped her throat raw.
“Saint Mary’s, but don’t come now. She’s still in surgery. Visit tomorrow—the doctor will explain everything. Do you know why she was on the motorway tonight?”
“Wait, how do you know about her son?”
“Same way I got your number—from her phone. Why was she on the motorway?” The inspector—Harris? Hodgson? She couldn’t recall his name, as if that mattered now.
“I don’t—” she started automatically, then stopped. “She went to a friend’s birthday. I told her not to go…” Martha shook her head, as if he could see her. “Probably stayed late. Promised she’d be back by nine. Her boy’s waiting… Oh God, what do I tell him when he wakes up?”
“So, she was at a party… Could she have had a drink?”
“How dare you? She’s a responsible woman—knew she had to drive home to her son. She wouldn’t—” Martha protested furiously. *Though who knows?* she thought privately. “Maybe she changed her mind, decided to stay over…”
“Apologies for disturbing you.” The line went dead.
“Disturbing me? That’s one way to put it.”
Martha wanted to sprint to the hospital—but Oliver. She heaved herself up from the chair, legs weak. Opening the fridge, she grabbed the bottle of calming drops. Hands shaking, she lost count, then tipped the bottle—a sharp-smelling stream splashed into the cup.
“Make it strong,” she muttered, topping it up with hot water and downing it in one, barely flinching at the bitterness.
She sat clutching the bottle.
“Dear Lord, save Emily, your servant. She’s got a little boy—don’t leave him alone.” She crossed herself fervently, eyes fixed on the small cross on the shelf.
She prayed until exhaustion dragged her under.
“Gran, wake up! Gran. Did Mum come home?”
Oliver shook her shoulder. Martha surfaced groggily, last night’s call crashing back. She jolted fully awake.
“No, love. She rang—said she’d stay over,” she lied, knowing the truth would have to come out. He’d find out eventually.
“You’re lying. I heard you talking to someone. It wasn’t her.”
“Olly… Mum’s in hospital,” Martha said softly, pulling him close, hiding her tears.
“Is she sick?” Oliver wriggled free, alarmed.
“Yes. She had an operation. I—maybe you could stay with Auntie Jean next door? I’ll pop to the hospital, see what’s what.”
Oliver shook his head fiercely.
“I’m coming with you!”
“Alright. Go wash up, I’ll put the kettle on.” She nudged him toward the bathroom, then staggered—her head spun. *Perfect timing.* She set the kettle on the hob, then checked her blood pressure. Sky-high. She fumbled for her pills—but the packet was empty.
The kettle whistled. She rushed back.
At the hospital, the doctor’s words were grim. “She’s stable, but still in a coma.”
“Is Mummy going to die?” Oliver gasped.
“We’re doing everything we can,” the doctor said gently.
Martha’s fingers twitched toward a cross that wasn’t there. “Can we see her? They say coma patients hear loved ones. Maybe if she hears Olly…”
The doctor hesitated, glancing between them. “Fine. But no crying—understand?”
Oliver nodded, eyes already wet.
“I *told* her not to go,” Martha panted, struggling to keep up with the doctor’s long strides, Oliver’s small hand clamped in hers.
Outside the ICU, the doctor warned again—no noise, no tears.
They barely listened, straining for the moment they could step inside.
Even close, Martha barely recognised Emily—bandaged, bruised.
“Em, love, we’re here. Olly’s with me. Wake up, sweetheart,” she whispered, swallowing tears. Oliver just stared, wide-eyed.
“Grown-ups never tell the truth. I know she can’t hear us. If she could, she’d wake up. What if she dies? Will you send me away? You’re *old*,” Oliver mused on the bus home.
Martha only caught the tail end.
“I’m not old, I’m *mature*. And no, I’d never send you away. When Mum wakes up, I’ll tell her what you said. You’ll be ashamed,” she teased weakly.
Every day, Martha visited, whispering to Emily how much they missed her. At first, Oliver begged to come, but soon he returned to nursery—though he only sat drawing alone. Martha warned the teacher to leave him be.
Hope flickered lower each day. Dark thoughts crept in.
Then Emily’s ex turned up—Oliver’s dad. Rarely visited, only ever to moan at Emily, guilt-tripping her. Always skint. Turned up empty-handed or with some cheap toy from Tesco. Unshaven, rough. Martha knew the signs.
“Which hospital’s she at? Need any help?”
“Help? You’d only hurry her along,” Martha spat.
“That’s a rotten thing to say! I’m here to—”
“To what? Snatch Ollie while she’s down? You’re his *father*,” he sneered. “You’re not well. What if something happens to you?”
“Over my dead body. You’ve never cared. Fed him pizza, forgot pick-ups—think you can parent now?”
“I’ll manage,” he said coolly. “You look pale. Blood pressure playing up? Stress isn’t good for you. I could take this to court—they’d give him to me. I’m young, you’re not.”
“Got a job, have you? Forty next year and still acting the lad. No. Sue all you like. I’m his gran—I’ve got rights too. He barely knows you.”
“I’ll change.”
“Prove it first. NowAnd as Emily finally opened her eyes, holding Oliver’s small hand tightly, Martha knew that no court, no fear, and no darkness could ever break the love that held their family together.
