A Terrible Mistake
Emily woke to a sharp pain. Just before waking, she’d been dreaming something important—but the ache in her gut shoved the memory aside. She’d never felt anything like it, not even during her worst cramps. The ache radiated to her lower back, pulsing relentlessly.
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 flared again. A strangled cry escaped her as she slid to the floor. On her knees, she crawled to the dresser where her phone was charging.
She dialled 999 on her hands and knees, one palm pressed to the cold wooden floor for support. “Calm down, the ambulance will come,” she whispered to herself. “But the door—I need to unlock it.” She dragged herself to the hallway, pain burning through her abdomen like fire.
Gritting her teeth, she tried to straighten up enough to slide the bolt, but agony tore through her. Tears welled in her eyes. This was the true horror of living alone—not the lack of someone to bring a glass of water, but no one to open the door when your life depended on it. She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood and tried again. The bolt gave way. Then darkness swallowed her.
Fragments of voices reached her through the fog—questions, answers she wasn’t sure she gave. When she finally woke, pale autumn sunlight streamed through the hospital window. She flinched away, the movement tugging at a fresh stitch of pain beneath her ribs. Her stomach felt swollen, tender, but the worst of the agony was gone.
Just days ago, during another futile attempt to break things off with James, she’d thought death might be kinder than this half-life. No husband, no children. No one. What was the point? But in that moment of terror, she’d clawed for survival. The realisation hit her—how terrifying it was to die suddenly, alone.
“You’re awake!” A warm voice broke through her thoughts.
Emily turned her head. In the neighbouring bed lay a plump woman in a flannel dressing gown patterned with blue and yellow daisies.
Before long, a nurse bustled in.
“How are you feeling?” she asked brightly. Young, rosy-cheeked—or maybe it was just the effect of her pink uniform cap.
“Better,” Emily managed. “What happened?”
“The doctor will explain everything soon,” the nurse said, already heading for the door.
Emily caught sight of a thick blonde braid swinging at her waist. Braids—she hadn’t seen those in years.
“You’re in gynaecology. They brought you in a couple of hours ago. Slept like a log, love,” the roommate chimed in.
Love. Lately, she’d only been called “madam” or “miss” in shops and buses. It made her feel ancient. Forty-two wasn’t old, was it? Maybe that was why, whenever friends tried setting her up, she brushed them off—too late, no point. Same reason she kept trying to end things with James, though he always came back.
The doctor arrived—a man in his fifties with tired eyes.
“How are you feeling?”
“What happened? Did I have surgery?” Emily touched her tender abdomen. “I feel like I swallowed a balloon.”
“Ms. Thompson, they’re ready for you in the dressing room,” he said to the roommate.
With a sigh, the woman shuffled out.
Emily met the doctor’s gaze gratefully.
“We performed a laparotomy. You had an ectopic pregnancy—a ruptured fallopian tube.”
“What?!” Shock nearly sent her bolting upright. A fresh spike of pain forced her still.
“Why the surprise?”
“They told me I was infertile.”
“That doesn’t rule out an ectopic pregnancy—or even a natural one. Life’s full of surprises. You’ll stay with us a few days.”
“Can I get up?”
“You should—just don’t overdo it.” With that, he left.
Emily stared at the ceiling, processing. They’d said she couldn’t have children. Her husband left because of it—though really, it was just an excuse for his affairs. Could she really get pregnant? But at forty-two? Still, she should’ve asked the doctor properly.
She eased herself up, legs dangling over the bed. Her slippers waited on the floor, her dressing gown draped over the chair. The paramedics must’ve grabbed them. No pain now, just sore muscles. Slipping into her robe, she stood. Dizziness washed over her. Anesthesia, she guessed.
Her keys and purse were in the pocket. At least they’d locked her flat.
No mirror hung above the sink. She smoothed her hair with her hands and ventured into the corridor. She made it as far as the staff room door—locked, key still in place—before dizziness forced her onto a bench near the nurses’ station.
Her mind drifted to James. Would he have cared if he knew she could’ve carried his child? They’d met five years ago. He’d been upfront—married, with a young daughter. Their affair burned fast and bright. She’d never expected more. Countless times she’d tried ending it. He’d storm off, then return. Early on, he’d promised to leave his wife once the girl was older—but she’d started school, and he never did. Emily stopped asking. Each time, she told herself it was the last—until he knocked, and she let him in.
A snippet of conversation yanked her back.
“—during the op, Dr. Harrison found a tumour. Massive.”
She recognised the rosy-cheeked nurse’s voice.
“And?”
“Nothing they could do. Closed her up. Harrison said it’s stage four. Thompson’s being transferred to oncology tomorrow. Shame—not even old.”
“God, that’s awful.”
Emily’s blood turned to ice. Thompson. That was her name. Were they talking about her? The room spun. Nausea climbed her throat. Cancer. Oncology. Why hadn’t the doctor said anything?
Trembling, she staggered back to her room and collapsed onto the bed. When her roommate returned, Emily curled toward the window.
“You crying? Should I fetch someone?”
“No.” Emily stood abruptly and left.
Downstairs, golden leaves swirled in the hospital courtyard. Patients strolled under the trees. No one glanced at her.
She wasn’t going to oncology. Not wasting her last months like her mum had—thirty rounds of chemo, wasting away until she refused more. No.
Emily turned her back on the hospital. She had her keys, her purse. She’d die at home, hair intact. The walk back was slow; benches offered brief rests, but September’s chill seeped through her gown. Passers-by eyed her, but what did it matter now?
At home, she showered, scrubbing away the hospital smell. Tea steamed in her hands. Soreness lingered, but bearable.
She swung between tears and numbness. What had her life been? Who’d visit her grave? Only James might remember.
For days, she barely moved—only rising for tea or the loo. On the third morning, she woke rested. The mirror showed no yellowed skin, no drastic weight loss. She’d always been thin—divorce, her mother’s illness, the funeral, James’s exhausting push-and-pull. Yet with him, she’d been happy.
She grabbed her phone, blocked his number. He wouldn’t see her like this.
The flat needed sorting. A will—leave it to her aunt, not strangers. She booked a solicitor. No riches—just a wedding band and gold studs. All her life she’d wanted a proper fur coat. Never bought one.
With odd satisfaction, she fried eggs and ate hungrily.
That night, her mother appeared in a dream—stern, pre-illness. “Mum! How are you?” “I’m fine. But you—” “What did I do wrong?” She woke gasping, heart hammering.
The dream tugged at a memory—year seven, skipping school for the cinema. Mum’s friend had spotted her, and the scolding that followed had been legendary.
Was this the same? Maybe she needed to visit the grave.
The next day, the bus rolled past the hospital. On impulse, she got off.
“Ms. Thompson!” Dr. Harrison’s voice froze her. “Running off? Reckless. What if there’d been complications?”
“I’m fine.”
“Come with me.”
“Why?” She stepped back. “I’m not going to oncology.”
“What? Who told you that?”
“The nurses. I heard them say—Thompson, stage four…”
His brow furrowed. “Which nurse?”
“The one at the station. Blonde, with—”
“Ah.” He led her inside, ignoring her protests. In his office, he slapped two files on the desk.
Both read “Thompson.” But the first names differed—Emily Elizabeth Thompson and Isabelle Adele Thompson, born 1971.
Emily’s breath caught.
“See? Same surname. Happens. Once, I had two patients with identical names living on the same street.” He smiled. “So?”
“SoShe walked out into the drizzling rain, laughing through her tears, because sometimes life gives you a second chance just to see if you’ll take it—and this time, she would.
