Not Everything Is as It Seems
Before her morning rounds, Nurse Nina slipped into the doctors’ lounge and whispered conspiratorially:
“Dr. Hart, the patient in Room Five—Emily Ivington—has been begging me all evening to let her go home. You asked me to tell you if anything came up.”
“Thank you, Nina. I’ll handle it,” replied Dr. Helen Hart, tucking a loose curl back under her surgical cap before heading to Room Five.
By the window, a young woman lay curled on the bed, her face turned to the wall.
“Good morning, Lucy. What’s going on?”
Lucy whipped around and sat up, her eyes pleading.
“Please, just discharge me. I can’t stand another day here. At home, I could at least distract myself—do something—but in this stuffy room…” Her voice cracked, and she looked up at Helen with watery eyes.
“No crying, now. It’s not good for the baby—unless you’ve changed your mind?” Helen asked sternly.
“No, I haven’t. I feel fine. I promise I’ll rest at home—no lifting, no stress. Please, just let me go. The weather’s been so lovely, and I’m stuck inside all day,” Lucy managed a timid smile.
“Fine. Tomorrow, we’ll run some tests, do an ultrasound, and if everything checks out, I’ll discharge you,” Helen conceded.
“Thank you!” Lucy clasped her hands together as if in prayer. “I promise I’ll take care of myself—and if anything feels off, I’ll call you straight away.”
Helen left the room, still baffled. How had her son—bright, ambitious James—fallen for this pale, unremarkable girl? He’d worked for a top firm—well, *used* to. She corrected herself. It was his choice, and she had to respect that. If James had loved her, she’d try to as well.
Back in uni, James had been head over heels for the dazzling, vivacious Gemma—they’d been the golden couple. But a year later, Gemma dumped him for some expat, leaving James heartbroken. He skipped lectures for weeks; Helen feared he’d drop out entirely.
Eventually, he recovered—graduated, landed a prestigious job. Yet for ages, he couldn’t even glance at other women. Then he met Lucy—mousy, slight, the polar opposite of Gemma. Maybe he thought someone this plain wouldn’t betray him.
“Mum, this is Lucy,” he’d said the first time he brought her home.
Helen had kept her face neutral, though inwardly, she winced. Every Lucy she’d ever known had been two-faced—meek on the outside, cunning underneath. She’d hoped the relationship wouldn’t last. They were just too different.
When James announced their engagement, Helen bit her tongue.
“Have you set a date?” was all she asked instead of congratulations.
“Not yet. Aren’t you happy for us?” he’d pressed.
“What matters is that *you* are,” she replied smoothly.
He gave Lucy a diamond ring, still sparkling on her delicate finger. The wedding was set for August. Helen secretly prayed something would change his mind by then.
And then—disaster. At a friend’s birthday, James had a few drinks, sent Lucy home in a cab, and decided to walk it off. In a shadowy alley, he saw two thugs forcing a girl into a car. She fought back, screaming for help.
James intervened. One of them stabbed him in the gut. The car sped off, leaving him bleeding on the pavement. By the time he was found at dawn, it was too late.
Helen couldn’t help blaming Lucy. Why hadn’t she insisted he go home with her? And herself—hadn’t she raised him to be this reckless?
She thought she’d never recover. But she returned to work. Then Lucy was admitted—10 weeks pregnant, at risk of miscarriage. The dates lined up. James’s child. Lucy confirmed it.
Helen prescribed the best meds, monitored her like a hawk. She clung to the hope of a grandchild—a boy, preferably, but she’d cherish a girl all the same.
Before discharge, Helen asked, “Will your mum be there when you go home?”
“She doesn’t know,” Lucy admitted, flushing.
“What? Why not?”
“She raised me alone. Always feared I’d end up a single mum. And now…”
“But James proposed! You were getting married. If we’d known, we’d have moved the wedding up,” Helen argued.
“I wasn’t sure yet. Thought I’d tell her when I knew for certain. Then… I ran out of time. Guess I’m doing it alone now,” Lucy said quietly.
“But you have *us*. That baby is James’s—our grandchild. We’ll help. Did you even tell her you were in hospital?” Helen pressed.
Lucy nodded, staring at her lap.
“Maybe you shouldn’t rush home just yet. Stay a bit longer?” Helen softened.
“No. I want to go. I’ll tell her, I promise. Dr. Hart… thank you. I thought after James died, you’d want nothing to do with me.”
“Don’t be silly. Promise you’ll visit. Call us.”
“Promise,” Lucy said lightly.
Helen didn’t like the secrecy. If she’d lie about this, what else? They were so unlike James. Again, she wondered: *What did he see in her?*
For days, Lucy didn’t answer calls. Helen finally went to her flat. No one answered.
No word. Helen agonised over the baby’s safety. Then, returning from a late shift, she heard laughter from the kitchen. She kicked off her heels and walked in—Lucy at the table, her husband, Mark, grinning beside her.
Lucy looked… cheerful. Not a trace of grief. She spotted Helen first, freezing mid-laugh.
“Didn’t hear you come in,” Mark fumbled. “Just having tea with Lucy. Why are you barefoot?” His gaze darted to Lucy—then to *Helen’s slippers* on Lucy’s feet.
“Hello, Lucy. I’ve been calling,” Helen said, fighting to stay calm.
“Lost my phone. Came by so you wouldn’t worry. I told Mum everything.” Lucy’s eyes welled up.
“Sweetheart,” Mark said helplessly, “her mum threw her out after *quite* the scene.”
Helen sat opposite Lucy. “Don’t cry. Stay with us. You’re family.” She braced for the storm ahead.
“Of course, stay as long as you need,” Mark added.
Helen showed Lucy to James’s old room. She lay awake half the night, debating whether to confront Lucy’s mother. On the other hand—having Lucy under their roof meant keeping tabs.
Next evening, Helen knocked on Lucy’s mother’s door. A striking brunette answered—Helen could tell she’d been a knockout in her youth. How *had* Lucy turned out so plain?
“You are?”
“Lucy’s mother?”
“Yes. She’s not here.”
“Actually, I came to see *you*. I’m Dr. Hart—her physician. She said you kicked her out. True?”
“Doctors make house calls now?” The woman smirked.
“Also, I’m James’s mother. The man she was engaged to.”
“Ah. Never met him. Pity.” She sighed. “What do you want?”
“Lucy’s carrying his child. She’s staying with us.”
“Didn’t *kick* her out. Had a row, said things. But I’m her mother—I worry! Raised her alone. Didn’t want this life for her.”
“We’ll help. She needs you now,” Helen said.
“She’s sly. Not as fragile as she seems. Trust me, I *know* her,” the woman said wryly.
On the way home, Helen turned it over. Lucy *had* looked oddly guilty when caught in the kitchen. “Not as fragile as she seems,” Helen muttered. “We’ll see.”
Lucy settled in, lounging, watching telly, occasionally burning potatoes. Her oversalted soup ensured she wasn’t asked to cook again.
Two weeks later, Helen left for a conference. Her presentation went brilliantly. Yet all evening, unease gnawed at her. She called home—Lucy chirped that she was roasting chicken for Mark.
*Chicken?* Since when did she cook?
Next morning, Helen skipped the farewell brunch, claiming a migraine, and took an early train. She crept in at midnight. The bed was empty. She didn’t need light to know.
She flung open James’s door, flicked the switch.
Lucy jerked up from Mark’s bare shoulder, squinting. Mark blinked awake.
“You’re… back?” he stammered.
“What. Are. You. Doing?” Helen bit out.
“I— It’s not what it looks like! She was upset, I just—”
“Really? You’re in *our son’s bed* with his *fianHelen looked at them both, the truth crashing down like a shattered teacup, and whispered, “Get out.”
