A Terrible Mistake
Emily awoke to a sharp, twisting pain. Something had been haunting her dreams—something important—but the agony scattered the memory before she could grasp it. Her stomach had never ached like this before, the pain radiating down to her lower back.
She lay still, waiting for it to ease. When it dulled slightly, she pushed herself up in bed, but the moment she tried to stand, the pain slashed through her again. A cry tore from her lips as she slid to the floor. On her knees, she crawled to the dresser where her phone was charging.
She called for an ambulance from the floor, one hand pressed against the cold wood to steady herself. *Breathe*, she told herself. *They’ll be here soon.* Then, panic flared—*the door!* She had to unlock it. Crawling on all fours, she dragged herself toward the hallway. The pain pulsed, her stomach burning as if filled with fire.
She tried to straighten enough to slide the bolt, but the pain flared anew. Tears pricked her eyes. This was the true horror of living alone—not that there was no one to fetch a glass of water, but no one to unlock the door for your own salvation. Biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, she tried once more. The bolt slid free. Then everything went black.
Voices reached her through the fog—questions, commands. She might have answered. Or perhaps it was only her imagination.
She woke in a hospital ward, autumn sunlight glaring through the window. Blinking against the brightness, she twisted away and winced as pain flared beneath her ribs. Her stomach felt swollen, tender, but the worst of the agony had faded.
Just days ago, in the middle of another fight with Edward, she’d thought death would be better than this half-life—no husband, no children, no one at all. Why go on? But in the dark, gasping for breath, she’d clawed at life. The thought of dying like this—sudden, alone—had been unbearable.
“Awake?” A voice from the next bed. Emily turned her head. A plump woman in a blue flannel nightdress dotted with yellow flowers smiled at her. “Shall I fetch the nurse?”
Before Emily could answer, the door opened. A young nurse stepped in, her pink cap bright against her rosy cheeks.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Fine,” Emily said. “What happened?”
“The doctor will explain everything soon,” the nurse replied before slipping out.
Emily caught a glimpse of a thick blonde braid swinging at her waist. *Do women still wear braids like that?*
“You’re in gynaecology,” the woman beside her said. “They brought you in a couple of hours ago. Slept like a log, dear.”
*Dear.* Lately, people had called her “madam” in shops, “love” on buses. She felt old. Though forty-two wasn’t ancient, was it? Still, whenever friends tried to set her up, she waved them off. *Too late for all that now.* That’s why she’d tried to leave Edward—but he always came back.
The doctor, a weary man in his fifties, entered. “How are you feeling?”
“What happened?” Emily asked. “Did I have surgery? I feel like I swallowed a balloon.”
“Mrs. Thompson, you’re needed in the dressing room,” he said to her roommate.
Once they were alone, Emily met the doctor’s exhausted gaze.
“We performed a laparotomy,” he said. “You had an ectopic pregnancy. The tube ruptured.”
“What?” Emily nearly bolted upright, pain answering the movement.
“That surprises you?”
“I was told I couldn’t have children.”
“Ectopic pregnancies happen even then,” he said. “Though, full-term pregnancies can too. Life is full of surprises. You’ll stay with us a few days.”
“Can I get up?”
“You should. But don’t overdo it.”
When he left, Emily let the news sink in. They’d told her she was infertile. Her husband had left her over it—though really, he’d just wanted an excuse. *Could I really get pregnant?* She shut the thought down. *Forty-two’s too late for babies.*
She swung her legs over the bed. Her slippers were waiting. Her dressing gown hung on the bedrail. The paramedics must have grabbed them.
She slipped the gown on, stepped into her slippers, and stood. The room swayed—*anaesthetic*, she guessed. Then she felt the weight in her pocket. Keys. Wallet. *They locked the door.*
No mirror hung over the sink. She smoothed her hair with her hands and stepped into the corridor.
She made it to the door marked “Consulting Room,” but it was locked, a key left in the latch. She kept walking, heading for the nurses’ station. Halfway there, dizziness hit. Nausea rose. She slumped onto a bench in a small waiting area.
*Would Edward have been happy to know I could’ve had his baby?*
They’d met five years ago. He’d told her straight away—married, late to settle down, a young child at home. Their affair had been fierce. She’d never expected more. She’d tried to leave so many times. He’d storm off, then return. At first, he’d promised to leave his wife when the child was older. But the girl started school, and he never left. Emily had stopped asking.
A hushed conversation broke her thoughts.
“Sergeyev found a tumour during surgery. Huge,” said a voice she recognized—the nurse with the braid.
“And?”
“Nothing. Just stitched her up. He said it was terminal. They’re moving this Collingwood woman to oncology tomorrow.”
“Poor thing.”
Emily stopped listening. The words *tumour, terminal, oncology* roared in her skull. Heat flooded her. Nausea clawed at her throat. *Collingwood—that’s me. They’re talking about me.*
Shaking, she stumbled back to her room.
Her roommate returned. “Are you crying? Should I call someone?”
“No.” Emily stood and left.
She walked downstairs. The day was warm, sunlight dappling the hospital garden. Patients strolled outside. No one glanced at her.
*No. I won’t go to oncology. How long do I have?* She remembered her mother’s death. Chemo every three weeks. Thirty rounds before she refused any more. Too tired. Too weak.
Emily turned, staring back at the hospital. She had nothing with her—just keys and ID in her pocket. *I can’t do what Mum did.* She walked toward the gates.
What little time she had left, she’d spend at home. At least she wouldn’t lose her hair.
She walked slowly, stopping on benches when she needed to rest. September air chilled her. Passersby gave her odd looks, but what did it matter now?
At home, she showered, scrubbing away the hospital smell. She made strong tea. Her stomach ached, but it was bearable.
She swung between tears and numbness. What had her life been? Who would bury her? Edward might remember her, if even that.
For days, she barely moved—only leaving bed for tea or the loo. On the third day, she stood. Rested. She examined herself in the mirror. Mum had wasted away, skin yellowing. Emily saw none of that.
She’d always been thin. Divorce. Her mother’s illness. The funeral. Edward’s endless back-and-forth. Though, with him, she’d been happy.
She grabbed her phone, blocked his number. She wouldn’t let him in next time. Let him remember her like this.
She surveyed the flat. She needed a will. Her mother’s cousin could have it—better than strangers. She booked an appointment with a solicitor.
No gold, just a wedding ring and a pair of earrings. She’d dreamed of a fur coat once. Never bought one.
With a strange sense of calm, she made scrambled eggs and ate hungrily.
That night, she dreamed of her mother—healthy, stern, like before the illness. *Mum! How are you?* *Me? I’m fine. But you…* *What did I do wrong?*
Emily woke with a gasp, heart pounding. She flicked the bedside lamp on and didn’t sleep again.
She’d last seen that look at thirteen, when she’d skipped school for the cinema. Mum’s friend had spotted her and tattled. She’d been grounded for weeks.
*What’s wrong now?* Maybe it was the grave. People said the dead nudged you when they were neglected.
The next morning, she took the bus to the cemetery. It passed the hospital. On impulse, she got off.
She stood outside, unsure why she’d come.
“Mrs. Collingwood!” A voice snapped her back. Dr. Sergeyev marched toward her. “Running off? What if there’d been complications? I’d be responsible! You’re a grown woman—act like it.”
“I’m fine.”
“Come with me.”
“Why?””Because,” the doctor said firmly, though his eyes softened, “we have a second chance to get it right—don’t waste it now.”
