The soft drizzle stung her face, misting her glasses. Emily trudged along, desperate to get home. Her mind felt foggy, thoughts unraveling like an old worn-out sheet. Skirting another puddle, she nearly slipped on the slick pavement edge. *Enough with the heels—time for sensible shoes.*
Home at last. The keypad beeped as she pushed open the building door. Warm, dusty air from the overzealous radiator—still blasting despite spring—hit her nose. *Would’ve been nice in winter.* The lift creaked its way to the sixth floor. *Am I coming down with something? Completely knackered,* she thought, leaning against the wall.
In the hallway, she collapsed onto the storage bench, pressing her back to the wall, eyelids heavy. *Home. Finally.* Then—nothing. No sound, no light, just darkness.
“Mum? Why’re you sitting in the dark? You okay?”
Jacob’s voice startled her, but she didn’t open her eyes.
“Just tired, love,” she mumbled, tongue thick.
She could *feel* him watching. With effort, she pried her eyes open—no Jacob, just the kitchen light on. Kicking off her shoes, she wiggled her freed toes and stood—only to wobble into the coat rack.
“Mum!” Jacob caught her before she toppled.
“Bit dizzy, that’s all.”
He helped her to the sofa. She sank back, legs stretched. *Bliss.* Her eyes shut—then snapped open as she jolted awake, meeting Jacob’s worried stare.
“You alright?”
She nodded and asked for tea. He hesitated before heading to the kitchen.
She remembered passing out at work last week—no memory of falling. *Just exhaustion, surely. Thirty-nine isn’t old. Maybe I *am* ill. Clinic tomorrow.* With a sigh, she shuffled to the kitchen.
“You’re pale. Headache?” Jacob set down a steaming mug.
She forced a smile. “Just tired. Bloody rain.” A sip. “You eaten?”
“Yeah. Got homework.”
“Off you go, then.” She nursed the tea, changed into her battered dressing gown, and peeked into Jacob’s room. Bent over his books, he looked so grown. Her heart swelled. *Her boy. Her whole world.* She shut the door quietly.
————
“Doctor, what’s wrong? Just need vitamins?” Next morning, Emily sat in the GP’s office. Rested but still wrecked.
“We’ll see. Here’s for bloods and an MRI. Bring results straight back. Any family history of cancer? Stroke?”
“My dad had cancer. Mum died of a stroke. So it’s—? I’ve a son. Fifteen. He’s *only* got me. I can’t—” Her voice cracked, the words lodging in her throat.
“Let’s not assume. Predisposition isn’t destiny. Take sick leave, rest, get tested.”
————
Jacob burst in after school. “What’d the doctor say?”
“Tests tomorrow. Don’t wake me.” She stirred soup, watching him eat. *So grown. What if it’s serious? Cancer? Stop it.*
“Mum? You’ve gone weird again.”
“Just thinking.”
Night brought no sleep. Memories flooded in—parents gone by uni, meeting David. He’d been there, steady, when she fell pregnant. No wedding—her parents dead, his mum miles away.
Then, when Jacob was two: *”I’ve met someone. I’m leaving.”*
She’d begged. He’d pushed her off.
She’d worked herself ragged. Jacob was always ill. Once, she’d called David—Jacob needed pricey meds. He’d sent £200, sneered, *”Where’s the child support going?”*
When Jacob asked about his dad, she’d told the truth. Later, he admitted staking out David’s office—only to see him laughing with some glamorous woman.
*”Why don’t you dress like her?”* he’d asked. How to say *There wasn’t enough* without making him feel guilty?
Then came the teenage rebellion—smokes in pockets, shouting matches. She’d called David *once* more. *”New baby. No time. Or spare cash.”*
But this past year, Jacob had buried himself in guitar. Calmer. Now this—fainting, weakness. *God, why? He needs me.*
————
In the hospital waiting room, Emily studied the other patients—tense, hollow-eyed. *Do I look like that?*
“Miss? Your turn.”
Hands trembling, she clutched her handbag.
“No good news. You’ve a brain tumour. Small, superficial. That’s the only silver lining.”
“Cancer?”
She’d wondered how people kept breathing after those words. Yet here she was. The world hadn’t ended.
“Emergency surgery. Understood?”
“I’ve no money.”
“NHS will cover it. One bloke’s wife didn’t get a slot in time. You’re lucky.”
*”Lucky,”* she echoed, grimacing.
“My son’s fifteen. I can’t—”
“Fifteen’s old enough. Without this, you might not see him turn eighteen.”
She went. Called Jacob from the hospital—*Bring my things.* He came straight over, brave-faced. She willed herself not to think *last time.*
————
Home alone, Jacob dialled the number he’d saved years ago—never used.
*Ringing. Ringing.*
Finally: “Hello?”
Jacob didn’t know his father’s voice. But who else?
“Dad. It’s Jacob. Mum’s in hospital. Surgery tomorrow. Dad?”
Silence. Then: “You alone?”
“She never remarried. Dad, I’m scared.”
“I’ll call back—” *Click.*
Jacob hurled his phone. *”Coward!”*
————
Next day, he skipped school for the hospital. Sat praying—not to God, just *Please let her be okay.* Promised silently: *Never shout again. Help more.*
The surgeon emerged. “Successful. ICU for 24 hours. Go home.”
Next day, he was allowed in. Bandaged, eyes closed—but she whispered *”Jacob,”* and he nearly sobbed.
Later, his father called. Jacob spat, *”Buy your wife another fur coat?”* and hung up.
He kept his promise—no more rows. Rushed home to check on her. Small things she asked? Easy. No arguments.
And who cared if she wore no makeup, dressed plain? To him, she was beautiful. *His* mum.
*”Without sickness, health means nothing. Without hardship, comfort means nothing. Without faithlessness, faith means nothing. Without death, life means nothing.”*
