**Diary Entry – 12th November**
There’s nothing more frightening in this world…
“Everything’s fine with Oliver. I’m discharging him for nursery.” The doctor handed Emily the paperwork. “Don’t fall ill again, Oliver.”
The little boy nodded and looked up at his mum.
“Let’s go.” Emily took his hand, glancing back at the door. “Goodbye.”
“Bye-bye,” Oliver echoed behind her.
In the corridor, Emily sat him on a chair and went to fetch their coats. Oliver swung his legs, curiously eyeing the other children. Once bundled up, Emily tightened his scarf.
“Nursery tomorrow. Missed it?” she asked.
“Yes!” he chirped.
They stepped out of the paediatric clinic into the snowy street, heading for the bus stop.
“Mum! Mum!” Oliver tugged her sleeve, pulling her from her thoughts—finally returning to work tomorrow, life resuming its rhythm.
“Hmm?”
Following his gaze, she spotted a woman pushing an open pram. Inside sat a boy Oliver’s age, mouth slack with dribble, eyes vacant. Emily quickly looked away.
“Mum, why’s that boy in a pram? He’s big,” Oliver whispered.
“He’s poorly,” she said.
“But you didn’t push me in a pram when I was poorly?”
“Let’s hurry. He’s poorly in a different way.” She glanced back at the retreating woman, steering Oliver to the stop.
Since Oliver’s birth, she couldn’t bear seeing sick children—her heart seized, imagining herself in those mothers’ shoes. Most struggled alone; husbands often left. Thank God she had family nearby.
Could she have done it? Carried such a burden? Abandoned her child at the hospital? Never. Not her Oliver. Even the thought was unbearable.
On the bus, memories flooded in…
***
She’d been pretty and carefree, dating but never rushing into marriage—children a distant thought. Yet as friends wed (some more than once), their kids starting school, relatives began asking, *Still not married?* Their eyebrows arched at her answer.
Eventually, she longed for it—a family, a child. Ready to cook for a loving husband, fuss over a baby, join the pram parade in the park. But the men she fancied were taken or burnt by divorce, while those who fancied her? Not for her. The eternal mismatch.
Then she met *him*. Not her usual type, but friends and Mum chorused: *Time’s running out. If not now, when?*
He spoke of love, children, futures. Proposed grandly. She said yes. After the lavish wedding, she fell pregnant almost instantly—why wait? Thirty-three already.
She’d stroll smiling, lingering in baby aisles, tracing tiny booties. Cradling her bump, shielding the life within. Already in love—with her *daughter*. She’d wanted a girl so badly.
Morning sickness faded, but nightmares took its place—losing the baby in crowds, finding an empty pram. Waking, stomach flat, child gone. *But he was just here…*
Her pulse would pound as she clutched her swollen belly, trembling long after.
“Normal anxieties,” the midwife soothed.
Then one evening, the baby stopped moving. She waited, panicked, and rushed to hospital for a scan.
“Why won’t you speak?” she begged, watching the technician’s frown.
“Relax, Mum. Heartbeat’s strong—listen.” A rapid *thump-thump* filled the room. “Just a deep sleeper. Can’t wake him.”
“*Him?* A boy?”
“You didn’t know?”
When a feeble kick finally came, she exhaled.
“Alive! He’s awake!”
As labour neared, terror grew. Her back ached under the weight.
“Big baby. A proper bruiser,” the doctors grinned.
“Can I deliver him?”
“Where else would he go?” the midwife chuckled.
“But I’m ‘geriatric’—isn’t that what you call it?”
“Women deliver at forty these days. You’re fine.”
“Could I have a C-section?”
“No need. You’re healthy.”
“But my dreams—what if something goes wrong?”
“Stop imagining the worst.”
At the hospital, the stern matron dismissed her fears.
“No medical grounds for surgery. You’ll manage.”
“I’ll *pay*,” Emily pressed.
“Surgery harms the baby. Risks—”
“And natural birth doesn’t?”
Exasperated, the matron relented—barely. “Come three days early. We’ll induce.”
“What if you’re not here?”
“They’ll call me.”
Emily didn’t believe her.
A colleague’s ex-husband—an obstetrician—was her last hope. He listened, calm and towering in scrubs, and scheduled the C-section without debate.
In theatre, snippets of chatter reached her:
“—triple nuchal cord—just in time—”
Then—a cry.
“Your little champion.” He held up a squalling, pink bundle.
***
Now that chatterbox boy sat beside her on the bus.
“Can we buy the toy car *now*?” Oliver begged.
“Yes,” she smiled.
She thought of the boy in the pram. That mother’s burden—no first words, no school runs. However ‘hysterical’ they’d thought her, Emily had fought for Oliver.
She once thought happiness was a career, a house, a loving husband. None of it mattered. True happiness was this: her child, alive and healthy, clutching her hand, babbling and grinning.
Doctors save lives. But they should listen—women’s instincts are ancient, fierce, and meant to protect.
