**My Love, My Only One**
A fine rain stung my face, blurring my vision. Emma trudged forward, longing to be home. Her mind felt foggy, thoughts unraveling like an old, threadbare sheet. Dodging another puddle, she nearly slipped on the slick pavement. *Enough with the heels. I’m not a girl anymore—time for sensible shoes.*
Finally, the flat. Emma punched in the code, and the hallway’s dry, dusty heat hit her—spring had arrived, yet the radiators still blazed like midwinter. The lift creaked up to the sixth floor. *Maybe I’m coming down with something. No energy at all.* She leaned against the wall, eyes closing.
In the entryway, she collapsed onto the bench, back against the wall, lids heavy. *Home. Safe.* Then—nothing.
“Mum? Why’re you sitting in the dark? You okay?”
Jack’s voice startled her, but she didn’t open her eyes.
“Just tired, love,” she murmured, tongue sluggish.
She felt him watching. Forcing her eyes open, she found the kitchen light on instead. Kicking off her shoes, she wiggled her toes and stood—then swayed into the coat rack.
“Mum!” Jack caught her.
“Bit dizzy,” she admitted.
He guided her to the sofa. Emma sank into the cushions, legs stretched. *Heaven.* Her eyes drifted shut—then flew open as Jack’s worried face loomed.
“You sure you’re alright?”
She nodded, asking for tea. Reluctantly, he left.
She remembered fainting at work last week. No memory of falling. *Thirty-nine and falling apart. Maybe I am ill. Doctor tomorrow.* With a sigh, she shuffled to the kitchen.
“You’re pale. Headache?” Jack set steaming tea before her.
Emma forced a smile. “Just knackered. Bloody rain.” She sipped. “You eaten?”
“Yeah. Got homework.”
“Go on, then.” She nursed her tea, changed into a worn dressing gown, and peeked into Jack’s room. Bent over his books, he looked so grown. Her heart swelled. *My boy. My only one.* She shut the door softly.
“Doctor, what’s wrong? Maybe vitamins?” Next morning, Emma sat in the surgery, exhausted despite sleep.
“Tests first. MRI. Results to me straightaway. Family history of cancer? Stroke?”
“My dad had cancer. Mum died of a stroke. So it’s—? I’ve a son. He’s all I’ve got. I *can’t* die!” Her cry bounced off the walls, lodging in her throat.
“Hold on. Predisposition isn’t fate. You’re young. Rest, get tested. Here’s a sick note.”
“Mum? What’d the doctor say?” Jack found her stirring soup after school.
“Just tests. Don’t wake me tomorrow.”
Watching him eat, she winced. *What if it’s serious? Cancer? Don’t think it.*
“You okay? You’ve gone all spacey.”
She startled. “Just thinking.”
Night brought no rest. How sleep when dread claws at you? Memories surfaced: her parents’ deaths at uni, meeting Daniel—supportive, living in halls, from Manchester. They moved in quick.
When she fell pregnant, he proposed, no fuss. No family to invite—his mum lived up north. They visited after.
Fights happened. No one to guide them. She swallowed anger when Daniel stayed out late. Then, Jack turned two—*”I love someone else. Can’t do this.”*
She’d wept, clutched his shirt. He shoved her off. Left. Nursery fees, double shifts—never enough. Once, Jack fell ill; meds cost a fortune. She called Daniel. He sent £200, sneered, *”Where’s my child support going?”*
When Jack asked about his dad, she told the truth. Later, he admitted stalking Daniel’s office—saw him laughing with some glamorous woman. Never noticed his son.
Jack raged: *”He traded us!”* Then, *”Why don’t you dress nice like his new wife?”* How explain she pinched pennies for *him*? Not wanting guilt to sound like blame.
Teenage rebellion hit—sulkiness, cigarettes in pockets. She rang Daniel to talk sense into him. *”New baby. No time. Or spare cash.”*
Her talks with Jack sparked shouting matches—*”I’ll run away!”* So much pain, betrayal.
Then, Jack found music. Guitar chords filled the flat. Peace, at last—till these faints, this weakness. *God, why? He needs me. Only me.*
In the waiting room, Emma studied frightened faces. *Do I look like that?*
“Miss? Your turn.”
Inside, she gripped her handbag.
“No good news. Brain tumor. Small, superficial. That’s the silver lining.”
“Cancer?”
She’d wondered how people carried on hearing those words. Yet here she sat. The world hadn’t ended.
“Urgent surgery. Understood?”
“Yes. But money—”
“NHS covers it. Others wait months. You’re lucky.”
“Lucky,” she echoed bitterly.
“Indeed. Risky, yes, but survivable. Go *now*. Bed today, op tomorrow.”
“I can’t. Jack’s fifteen. He’s alone—”
“Fifteen’s not eight. You might not see him grown. *Go.*”
She went. Called Jack from hospital for clothes. He came at once.
She fought thoughts of last goodbyes, smiled bravely. So did he.
Home, despair swallowed him. He dialled Daniel—saved the number after a row with Mum, never used it.
Ringing. Then—
“Hello?”
Not knowing his father’s voice, Jack hesitated. Who else?
“Dad? It’s Jack. Mum’s in hospital. Surgery tomorrow. Dad? *Listen!*”
“…You alone?”
“Yeah. Fifteen, remember? No stepdad—Mum never remarried. I’m *scared*.”
“I’ll call back—” *Click.*
Jack hurled his phone.”Coward! *Bastard!*” Sobs wrecked him.
Next day, he skipped school, waited outside theatre. No prayers—just visions of Mum healthy. Promises: *Never argue again. Help more.*
The surgeon emerged. “Success. ICU tonight. Go home.”
Next day, he was allowed in. Bandages swathed her head.
“Mum?”
Her eyes fluttered open.
“Love…”
*She knows me.* He stroked her hand. “Doctor says you’ll be okay. Didn’t bring anything—”
“Have all I need,” she whispered.
Later, Daniel called. Jack tersely updated him.
“You angry? Couldn’t come. Wife just had a baby—”
“Buy her another fur coat? Diamonds? Liposuction? *Silicone tits?*” Jack’s voice cracked.
“How *dare* you—”
Jack hung up. Didn’t tell Mum.
“Doctor says you’ll recover. Won’t argue again. Promise.”
He kept it. Rushed home after school, checked on her. Squabbles still came, but remembering near-loss doused his temper. *Just do what she asks. Not worth fighting.*
Who cared if she wore no makeup, dressed plain? To him, she was perfect. His mum. His only one.
*No sickness, no value in health. No hardship, no gratitude for ease. No doubt, no faith. No death, no love for life.*
