The rain fell in sharp, needling drops, stinging her face and blurring her vision. Emily trudged forward, longing for the warmth of home. Her thoughts scattered like worn-out sheets, tangled and frayed. As she sidestepped another puddle, her heel slipped in the slick mud by the kerb. *Enough of this. You’re not a girl anymore. Time to trade heels for flats.*
Finally, the block of flats loomed ahead. Emily punched the code into the foyer door. The dry, dusty warmth from the overactive radiator hit her—always blasting, even as spring crept in. In winter, she’d have welcomed it. The lift groaned its way up to the sixth floor. *Am I falling ill? No energy left at all,* she thought, leaning against the wall.
In the hallway, she collapsed onto the stool, pressing her back to the wall as her eyelids grew leaden. *Home. At last.* She exhaled—and then, darkness swallowed her whole.
“Mum? Why’re you sitting in the dark? You alright?” The sound of Thomas’s voice jolted her, but she kept her eyes shut.
“No, love. Just tired,” she murmured, her tongue thick.
She could feel him watching her. Forcing her eyes open, she found the hallway empty—but the kitchen light was on. Emily kicked off her shoes, wiggling her cramped toes, then stood. The room tilted, and she staggered into the coat rack.
“Mum!” Thomas caught her before she could fall.
“Just dizzy,” she muttered.
He helped her to the sofa in the living room. She sank into the cushions, stretching her legs. *Bliss.* Her eyes fluttered shut—until a spike of panic yanked her back to awareness. Thomas was staring at her, worry etched in his face.
“You okay?”
She nodded, asking for tea. Reluctantly, Thomas disappeared into the kitchen.
Emily remembered the other time—waking up on the office floor, no memory of how she’d gotten there. She’d blamed exhaustion then, too. *I feel ancient, and I’m only thirty-nine. Maybe I am ill. Tomorrow, the doctor.* With a sigh, she pushed up and headed to the kitchen.
“You’re pale. Headache?” Thomas slid a steaming mug toward her.
She forced a smile.
“Just tired. The rain, you know.” She sipped. “You eaten?”
“Yeah. Got homework to finish.”
“Go on, then. I’m fine.” She nursed the tea, changed into her faded dressing gown, and peeked into Thomas’s room. He hunched over his book, shoulders tense. A wave of tenderness crashed over her. *Her boy. Her only one.* She closed the door.
“Doctor, what’s wrong? Just vitamins?” The next morning, Emily sat in the GP’s office, her body still heavy with fatigue despite a full night’s sleep.
“We’ll see. Tests first, then an MRI. Bring the results straight back. No delays. Any family history of cancer? Strokes?”
“My dad had cancer. Mum died of a stroke. You think it’s—?” Her voice cracked. “My son’s only fifteen. He’s got no one else. I can’t die!” The words rebounded off the walls, lodging like a stone in her throat.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions. Genetic risks exist, but you’re young. Get the tests. Rest.” The doctor scribbled a sick note.
“Mum, what’d the doctor say?” Thomas burst in after school, finding her stirring soup.
“Didn’t say much. Just tests. Don’t wake me tomorrow.”
She watched him eat. *So grown. What if it’s bad? Cancer? No. Don’t think.*
“Mum? You’ve gone spacey again.”
She startled.
“You’ve been off for days,” Thomas muttered.
“Just thinking.”
Sleep wouldn’t come. How could it, with dread coiled in her chest? Memories surfaced—her parents, gone by her uni days. Meeting Daniel. His warmth when she had nothing. He’d lived in halls, come from up north. They’d moved in together fast.
When she fell pregnant, he’d proposed. No wedding—her parents were gone; his mum lived too far. They’d visited her after.
Of course, they’d fought. No one to guide them. Emily bit her tongue when Daniel stayed out late. But when Thomas was two, he’d said he loved another woman. He couldn’t stay.
She’d begged. Clutched his shirt. He’d shoved her away.
Nursery fees, extra shifts—money always tight. Just once, she’d called Daniel, desperate for medicine when Thomas was ill. He’d sent £200, then asked where the child support went.
When Thomas asked about his dad, she told him the truth. Later, he admitted spying on Daniel outside his office—too engrossed in some leggings-clad woman to notice his own son.
Thomas had raged. *Why don’t you dress like her? Wear makeup?* How to explain she’d spent every penny on him? That saying so might sound like blame?
Then came the rebellions—the smoking, the slammed doors. She’d called Daniel one last time. *Talk to him.* But he’d just had another baby. No time. No spare cash, either.
She’d tried talking. It always ended in shouting. Thomas threatening to run. So much betrayal. So much pain.
But this past year, he’d buried himself in guitar, stayed in. Peace, at last. And now this—the fainting, the weakness. *Why? Why punish me? He needs me. Only me.*
In the hospital waiting room, Emily studied the other patients—tense, hollow-eyed. *Do I look like that?*
“Next, please? Or have you changed your mind?” The nurse’s voice snapped her back.
Inside, she gripped her handbag, knuckles white.
“I won’t sugarcoat it. You have a brain tumour. Small, superficial. That’s the only silver lining.”
“Cancer?” her voice was eerily calm. She’d always wondered how people kept breathing after those words.
“Surgery. Immediately. The NHS can cover it—you’re lucky.”
“Lucky,” she echoed, bitterly.
“Quite. Waiting lists kill people. There’s risk, yes, but you’ve got a chance. Go now. Tomorrow, the slot could vanish.”
“I can’t. My son—”
“He’s fifteen. You won’t see him hit eighteen if you delay.” The doctor handed her the paperwork.
At the hospital, she called Thomas. He came running, brought her things. She smiled, memorising his face. He promised he’d cope.
Alone at home, despair swallowed him. He dialled the number he’d once saved from her phone—never dared to call.
Gulping, he spoke. “Dad? It’s Thomas. Mum’s in hospital—surgery tomorrow.” Silence. “Dad?”
“I’ll call back,” Daniel said, then hung up.
Thomas hurled the phone. “Coward!” Tears streaked his face. No stopping them.
Next day, he skipped school. Sat in the hospital corridor, praying without knowing how. Bargaining with the universe.
When the surgeon emerged, relief nearly buckled his knees. “She’ll recover. But no visitors tonight.”
The following day, he tiptoed in. Emily lay still, bandaged.
“Mum?”
Her eyes fluttered open.
“Thomas,” she whispered.
*She knows me.* He stroked her hand. “Doctor says you’ll be fine. I didn’t bring anything—”
“Got all I need,” she rasped.
Later, Daniel called. Thomas answered curtly.
“You angry? I couldn’t just—”
“Another kid, huh? Buy your wife more diamonds? A new car?” His voice shook.
“Watch your tone.”
Thomas hung up. Didn’t tell her.
“Doc says you’ll recover. I’ll never shout at you again. Promise.”
And he kept it. Rushed home after school. Bit his tongue during spats. Remembered how close he’d come to losing her.
So what if she wore no makeup, dressed simply? She was his. His mum. The only one who’d never leave.
*No sickness, no value in health. No poverty, no gratitude for comfort. No faithlessness, no meaning in love. No death, no reverence for life.*