There is nothing more terrifying in this world…
“Everything seems fine with Oliver. I’m clearing him to return to nursery.” The doctor handed Eleanor the note. “No more falling ill, young man.”
The boy nodded and looked up at his mother.
“Come on, darling.” Eleanor took his hand and glanced back at the doctor. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” Oliver echoed softly as they stepped out.
In the hallway, Eleanor settled her son onto a chair and went to fetch their coats from the cloakroom. Oliver swung his legs cheerfully, watching the other children with curiosity. Once dressed, Eleanor carefully knotted his scarf.
“Nursery tomorrow. Have you missed it?” she asked.
“Of course!” Oliver beamed.
They left the clinic and made their way through the snowy streets toward the bus stop.
“Mum. Hey, Mum!” Oliver tugged at Eleanor’s sleeve, pulling her from her thoughts—thoughts of returning to work, of life finally resuming its ordinary rhythm.
“What is it, love?”
Her gaze followed his pointing finger to a woman pushing an open pram. Inside sat a boy Oliver’s age, his mouth slack, drool spilling down his chin, eyes vacant. Eleanor quickly looked away.
“Mum, why’s that boy in a pram? He’s big.”
“He’s poorly, sweetheart.”
“But you never pushed me in a pram when I was poorly?”
“Come along. He’s poorly in a different way.” She glanced once more at the retreating figure of the mother and hurried Oliver toward the bus stop.
Since Oliver’s birth, Eleanor had struggled to look at sick children without imagining herself in their mothers’ shoes. A deep, aching pity washed over her. She knew the stories—fathers who left, unable to bear the burden. Mothers who shouldered it all alone, if they were lucky enough to have family by their side.
Could she have done it? Taken on that impossible weight? Or would she have left her child behind in the hospital? Her Oliver? No, never. The mere thought was unbearable.
As the bus carried them home, Eleanor remembered…
***
She had been lively and pretty once, dating men but in no rush to marry, let alone have children. Yet time passed. Friends wed—some more than once—while others already had school-age children. Relatives and acquaintances would ask, eyebrows raised, why she wasn’t married yet.
Eventually, she too longed for a family. She imagined cooking for a loving husband, fussing over a baby, joining the other mums on pram walks. But the men she fancied were either married or, burned by past marriages, reluctant to try again. Those who fancied her? She didn’t fancy back. The age-old tale of mismatched hearts.
Then she met him. He wasn’t her usual type, not the man of her dreams. Still, friends and her mother insisted: this was her last chance. Time was slipping away, they said. Her future husband spoke of love, children, and plans. He proposed beautifully. And Eleanor said yes.
After a lavish wedding, she fell pregnant almost at once. Why wait? She was thirty-three.
She wandered streets with a smile, lingering in baby shops, admiring tiny dresses and booties. Her hand often rested on her bump, shielding the life within. She already loved her—her daughter. For some reason, she was certain it would be a girl.
Morning sickness faded, but nightmares took its place. Dreams of losing the baby on the street, of finding an empty pram. She’d wake gasping, heart pounding, clutching her belly to ensure the child was still there. Fear of sleep set in.
“It’s natural to feel anxious,” the midwife reassured her.
Then, one day, the baby stopped moving. She waited all night, then rushed to the hospital.
“Why won’t you say anything?” she begged the sonographer, voice trembling.
“Don’t fret, Mummy. There’s a heartbeat. Listen.” The machine pulsed rhythmically. “He’s just fast asleep. Won’t wake for me.”
“…He? A boy?”
“You didn’t know?”
When the faintest kick finally came, she laughed with relief. “He’s alive! He woke up!”
As her due date neared, terror grew. Her back ached under the weight of her belly.
“A big baby. He’ll be strong,” the doctors said.
“Can I deliver him?” she fretted.
“Where else would he go?” the midwife chuckled.
“But I’m… advanced, aren’t I?”
“Women deliver at forty, even older. You’ll manage.”
“What if—what if I have a C-section?”
“Why? There’s no medical need. You’ll do fine.”
“But my dreams—I don’t just fear pain. I fear something worse.”
The midwife waved her off. “Everyone’s scared. It’ll be alright.”
Eleanor pressed on, but no one listened.
She visited the hospital superintendent, pleading for a planned C-section. The woman was stern, dismissive.
“Young, healthy women don’t need surgery. Just relax.”
“What if I pay?”
“Don’t be absurd. Surgery harms the baby. Risks complications.”
“But natural birth has risks too—”
“Fine,” the superintendent snapped. “Come in three days early. We’ll induce you.”
“And if I go into labour before?”
A tight-lipped reply: “They’ll call me.”
Eleanor left, shaking. Perhaps she was mad. Others feared childbirth and survived. Yet why did sick children exist?
Two days later, she rang an old colleague whose ex-husband was an obstetrician. A stroke of luck—he agreed to see her.
He was a towering figure, calm and steady. No irritation, no judgment. He listened, then scheduled her C-section without debate.
At the hospital, relief settled over her.
“Preliminary scans show the cord’s wrapped around his neck—” The doctor’s words blurred as fear spiked again.
The next morning, she was wheeled into theatre. Fragments of whispers reached her.
“Goodness—triple nuchal… Just in time… A boy…”
Then—his cry. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Your little champion.” The doctor lifted him, red and squalling.
***
Now that same boy chattered beside her on the bus.
“Mum, can I have a toy car? Now?”
“Yes,” she smiled.
The boy in the pram flashed in her mind. Pity for him, for his mother—the unending burden, the milestones never reached.
They had called her hysterical, paranoid. But she had fought for Oliver, for his health, his life.
Once, she believed happiness was security, money, love. None of it mattered. True happiness was this: her child, alive and well, clinging to her hand, babbling, smiling.
Doctors save lives. But they should listen—to a mother’s fear, her instinct. For in women lies a primal force, an ancient knowing, all bent on one thing: bringing life safely into the world.
