The rain lashed against her face, stinging her eyes. Olivia trudged forward, longing to be home. Her mind was foggy, thoughts unraveling like a frayed old bedsheet. Skirting yet another puddle, she nearly slipped on the slick mud at the curb. “Enough with the heels. I’m not a girl anymore. Time for sensible shoes.”
At last, the house. Olivia punched in the code for the building’s door. The dry, dusty warmth of the radiator hit her—blasting full power even though spring had arrived. In winter, it never worked this well. The lift crawled up to the sixth floor. “Am I falling ill? I’ve got no strength left,” she thought, leaning against the wall of the cabin.
In the hallway, she collapsed onto the ottoman, pressing her back to the wall, her eyelids heavy. “Home. Finally.” She exhaled—and then plunged into darkness, no sounds, no smells.
“Mum, why are you sitting in the dark? Are you okay?”
At the sound of Jamie’s voice, she startled but didn’t open her eyes.
“No, love. Just tired,” Olivia murmured, her tongue sluggish.
She could feel him standing there, watching her. With effort, she pried her eyes open—but Jamie was gone. The kitchen light was on. Olivia kicked off her shoes, wiggling her freed toes, and stood—only to sway into the coat rack.
“Mum!” Jamie caught her before she fell.
“Just dizzy.”
He helped her to the sofa. Olivia sank back, stretching her legs. “So good.” Her eyes shut on their own… until she jerked awake, meeting her son’s worried gaze.
“Mum, are you alright?”
She nodded and asked for tea. Jamie hesitated before leaving.
Olivia remembered waking on the office floor earlier, no memory of collapsing. She’d blamed exhaustion then too. “I feel ancient, and I’m only thirty-nine. Maybe I am ill. I’ll see the GP tomorrow.” She sighed and shuffled to the kitchen.
“You’re pale. Headache?” Jamie set a steaming mug before her.
Olivia forced a smile. “Just tired. This weather.” She sipped. “Have you eaten?”
“Yeah. Got homework to finish.”
“Go on. I’m fine.” She drank slowly, then changed into a worn dressing gown and peeked into Jamie’s room. He hunched over his book. Her heart swelled. Her boy. Her only one.
“Doctor, what’s wrong? Vitamins?” Next morning, Olivia sat in the clinic, rested yet shattered.
“Let’s see. Here’s for bloodwork and an MRI. Bring results straight to me. Any family history of cancer? Stroke?”
“Yes. Dad had cancer. Mum died of a stroke. So this could be— My son’s in school. He’s got no one but me. I can’t die!” Her cry echoed off the walls, lodging in her throat.
“Let’s not assume the worst. Predisposition isn’t destiny. You’re young. Rest, get tested. I’ll see you soon.”
“Mum, what did the doctor say?” Jamie found her cooking when he got home.
“Just tests. Don’t wake me tomorrow.”
She watched him eat. “So grown. What if it’s serious? Cancer? Don’t think it.”
“Mum? You’re spacing out again.”
“You’ve been so sluggish,” Jamie said.
“Just thinking.”
Sleep wouldn’t come. How could it, with dread clawing at her? Olivia remembered her parents slipping away one by one during uni. That’s when she’d met Daniel. He’d stood by her. A student from another town, living in halls. They moved in fast.
When she got pregnant, Daniel was thrilled. They married quietly—her parents gone, his mother distant.
Fights came, of course. No one to guide them. Olivia bit her tongue when Daniel stayed out late. But when Jamie was two, he said he loved someone else. That he couldn’t stay.
She’d begged, clutched his shirt. He’d shoved her off and left. Olivia put Jamie in nursery and worked. It was hard. Jamie was always ill. She took extra shifts, but money never stretched.
Once, she called Daniel when Jamie needed expensive meds. He sent £200 and asked where the child support went.
When Jamie asked about his dad, Olivia told the truth. Later, he admitted waiting outside Daniel’s office—but his father didn’t notice him, too busy flirting with a tall beauty.
Jamie took it hard—traded for another woman. He asked why Olivia didn’t dress up like Daniel’s new wife. How could she explain? Every penny went to him.
Then came the rebellious phase—smokes in his pockets. She called Daniel once more to talk sense into him. “I’ve a newborn now. No time. Or spare cash.”
Olivia tried reasoning, but it always ended in shouts, Jamie threatening to run. So much betrayal, so much pain.
For a year now, Jamie had been calm, lost in guitar. Peace at last. And now—fainting, weakness. “God, why punish me? Jamie has no one but me…”
In the waiting room, Olivia studied the others—tense, scared. “Do I look like that?”
“Miss? Your turn.”
She gripped her handbag to steady her trembling.
“I’ll be blunt. You have a brain tumour. Small, superficial. That’s the good news.”
“Cancer?”
She’d wondered how people kept living after such words. Yet here she was, speaking, not screaming. The world hadn’t ended.
“Urgent surgery. Understood?”
“Yes. But I’ve no money.”
“The NHS will cover it. Some don’t live to see approval. You’re lucky.”
“Lucky,” Olivia echoed, bitter.
“Exactly. There’s risk—it’s brain surgery. But you’ve a real chance. Go now. The slot’s yours.”
“I can’t. My son’s fifteen.”
“Fifteen. You might not see him grown. Go.”
She went. Called Jamie from the hospital. He rushed over with her things.
Olivia fought the thought this might be goodbye. Jamie put on a brave face.
At home, despair crushed him. He dialled the number he’d once copied from her phone.
“Hello?” A man’s voice.
“Dad—it’s Jamie. Mum’s in hospital. Surgery tomorrow—”
Silence. Then— “You’re alone?”
“I’m fifteen. Mum never remarried. Dad, I’m scared.”
“I’ll call back.” The line died.
Jamie hurled the phone. “Coward. Traitor.” Sobs wracked him.
Next day, he skipped school for the hospital, praying in his own way.
“Success,” the surgeon said. “She’ll be in ICU. Go home.”
When he saw her bandaged, eyes closed, he whispered, “Mum?”
Her lids fluttered.
“Son.”
Jamie stroked her hand. “You’ll be okay.”
Daniel called later. Jamie spat, “Buy your wife another fur? Diamonds? Lipo? Silicone?”
“How dare you?”
Jamie hung up. Didn’t tell Olivia.
He kept his word—no more fights. Rushed home to check on her. Small disagreements? He’d remember how close he came to losing her.
She didn’t wear makeup or fancy clothes. Didn’t matter. To him, she was perfect. His mum.
*If not for sickness, we’d not treasure health. If not for poverty, we’d not value comfort. If not for doubt, we’d not cherish faith. If not for death, we’d not prize life.*
