**A Terrible Mistake**
Victoria woke in pain. Something important had been in her dream just before she opened her eyes, but the sharp ache in her stomach pushed it away. She’d never felt anything like it—radiating through her abdomen, even down to her lower back.
She lay still, waiting for it to fade. When it dulled slightly, she carefully sat up. But as soon as she tried to stand, the pain lanced through her again. A cry escaped her lips as she slid onto the floor. On her knees, she crawled to the dresser where she’d left her phone charging.
Still kneeling, one hand braced on the floor, she dialled 999. “Stay calm,” she told herself. “The ambulance will be here soon.” Then, panic—”The door! I have to unlock it!” Crawling to the hallway, the pain pulsed like fire.
She tried to straighten, to reach the bolt, but agony twisted through her. Tears welled. That was the terror of living alone—not that no one could fetch a glass of water, but that no one could open the door for help. Biting her lip hard, she tried again. The bolt slid free. Then, darkness.
Flashes of voices reached her through the fog. Questions, murmured answers—had she spoken, or dreamed it?
She woke in a hospital bed, autumn sun glaring through the window. Wincing, she turned away, then gasped as pain flared under her ribs. Her stomach felt swollen, tender, but the worst was gone.
Only yesterday, trying yet again to end things with James, she’d thought death would be better than this emptiness. No husband, no children—no one. What was the point? Yet in that moment of crisis, she’d clawed for life, realising how terrifying it would be to die alone.
“Ah, you’re awake. I’ll fetch the nurse.”
Victoria turned toward the voice. A plump woman in a floral dressing gown sat on the next bed.
Soon, a nurse bustled in—young, rosy-cheeked beneath her pale blue cap.
“How do you feel?”
“Better,” Victoria said. “What happened?”
“The doctor will explain soon,” the nurse replied before slipping out.
Victoria caught sight of a thick blonde braid swinging behind her. Did anyone still wear those?
“You’re in gynaecology. They wheeled you in two hours ago. Slept like the dead, love,” her roommate said.
*Love.* These days, strangers called her “madam” or “missus.” At forty-two, she felt ancient. That’s why, whenever friends tried setting her up, she waved them off. Too late now. That’s why she kept trying to leave James—though he always came back.
“How are you feeling?” A doctor in his fifties entered.
“What happened? Did I have surgery? I feel like I swallowed a balloon.”
“Mrs. Wilkins,” the doctor said to the other woman, “they’re waiting in the treatment room.”
Once alone, Victoria met the doctor’s weary gaze.
“You had a laparotomy. An ectopic pregnancy—your tube ruptured.”
*”What?”* She nearly bolted upright, pain answering in her muscles.
“That surprises you?”
“I—they told me I was infertile.”
“That doesn’t rule out ectopic pregnancies. Or natural ones. Life’s full of surprises.” He patted her arm. “Rest a few days.”
“Can I get up?”
“Must you? But don’t overdo it.”
Left alone, Victoria grappled with it. Infertile—that’s why her husband left. Or was that just his excuse to stray? *Could I really conceive? At forty-two?* She should’ve asked the doctor.
She dressed in the robe and slippers by her bed—likely brought by the paramedics. No pain now, just soreness. Keys and passport weighed her pocket. Good. The door was locked.
No mirror above the sink. Smoothing her hair, she ventured into the hall. The doctor’s office was locked, key still in the door. She moved toward the nurses’ station.
Then dizziness hit. Nausea rose. She sank onto a bench.
*Would James have been happy if he knew?* Five years ago, he’d said upfront: *I’m married. Late father. A little girl.* Their affair burned fast. She never expected more. Countless times, she’d tried ending it. He’d leave, sulk, return. At first, he promised, *Once my wife’s back at work…* But his daughter started school, and still he stayed. She’d stopped asking. *Last time,* she’d lie—until his knock came.
Voices interrupted. From the nurses’ station:
“—found a tumour during surgery. Massive.” The braided nurse.
“And?”
“Closed her up. Dr. Carter said it’s terminal. Transferring that Collins woman to oncology tomorrow.”
“Poor thing.”
Victoria’s ears roared. *Collins—that’s me.* Cancer. Terminal. *Why didn’t the doctor say?*
Trembling, she stumbled back to her room. When her roommate returned, Victoria turned away.
“You crying? Want me to fetch someone?”
“No.” She fled to the lobby, then outside. Sunshine. Patients strolling. No one glanced at her.
*No. No oncology.* “Not much time left,” the nurse had said. She remembered her mother—chemotherapy, thirty rounds, wasting away…
Her keys and passport were in her pocket. No belongings to collect. She wouldn’t endure that. She walked toward the gate.
Her borrowed time would be at home. At least she’d keep her hair. Passersby stared as she rested on benches, but what did it matter now?
Home. A scalding shower washed away the hospital smell. Tea soothed her. The pain was bearable.
She cycled between tears and numbness. What had her life been? Who’d visit her grave? No one but James might remember.
Days blurred. She only rose for tea or the loo. On the third day, she studied the mirror. No yellowed skin like her mother’s. Just thin. Divorce, her mother’s illness, the funeral, the exhausting dance with James—though with him, she’d been happy. She blocked his number. He wouldn’t see her like this.
Her flat needed settling. A will—leave it to her mother’s cousin, not strangers. She booked a solicitor. No riches: just a wedding ring and earrings. Always wanted a fur coat. Never bought one.
Eggs sizzled in the pan. She ate hungrily.
That night, her mother visited in a dream—stern, as when Victoria skipped school to see a film.
*”Mum! How are you?”*
*”I’m fine. But you…”*
*”What did I do wrong?”*
She woke screaming, heart pounding. The dream gnawed at her. Maybe the grave needed tending.
Next morning, the bus passed the hospital. On impulse, she got off.
“Miss Collins! You just walked out?” Dr. Carter scolded. “What if there’d been complications? Open discharge, and you vanish!”
“I’m fine.”
“Come with me.”
“Why?” She stepped back. “I won’t go to oncology.”
“What? You’re perfectly—”
“I heard the nurses. ‘Collins. Terminal.’”
“Which nurse?” Bewildered, he led her inside.
In his office, he slid two files forward. Both read *Collins*, but different first names. *Victoria Emily* and *Isolde Alice.* Same surname. Different patients.
“See? It happens. Once, two patients shared a name *and* street. Just coincidence.”
“So I’m… healthy?”
“Well, minus one tube.” He smiled.
She hugged him, weeping.
“Hope those are happy tears. Sit.” He handed her water. “Maybe this was a warning. Change something before life forces your hand.”
She nodded fiercely.
“Thank you. And please—don’t punish the nurses.”
Outside, rain misted her face. She smiled anyway.
Home, she scrubbed dishes, started laundry, humming. That will, that despair—like a bad dream.
Evening. A knock. James stood there, suitcase at his feet.
“Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
“Oh.” She’d forgotten the blocklist.
“I left my wife.”
*Now?*
“Can’t split myself in half anymore. Can’t live without you.”
“Neither can I.” She pressed into him.
“You know—” they said in unison, then laughed.
