**A Terrible Mistake**
I woke up in pain. Something important had been haunting my dreams just before I opened my eyes, but the sharp ache in my stomach—radiating to my lower back—drove it away. Never had I felt anything like this before.
I lay still, waiting for the pain to ebb. It dulled slightly. Carefully, I sat up, but the moment I tried to stand, agony ripped through me again. A cry escaped my lips as I slid off the bed onto the floor. Crawling on my knees, I dragged myself to the dresser where my phone was charging.
I dialled 999 from the floor, bracing myself with one hand. *Calm down, help is coming,* I told myself. *But the door—I have to unlock it.* On hands and knees, I crawled toward the hallway. My stomach burned, the pain pulsing in waves.
I tried to stand to slide the bolt on the front door, but another stab of pain nearly blinded me. Tears pricked my eyes. This was the true horror of living alone. Not that no one would fetch you water—but that no one would open the door when your life depended on it. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood and forced myself up. The door swung open just before everything went black.
Fractured voices reached me through the fog. Someone was asking questions. I think I answered.
When I came to, I was in a hospital room. Low autumn sunlight glared through the window. I flinched away, wincing as a dull ache flared under my ribs. My stomach felt swollen, but the pain was gone.
Just last week, during yet another attempt to leave Geoffrey, I’d thought—*better dead than stuck like this.* No husband, no children. No one at all. What was the point? But in that moment of terror, I’d clawed for life, realising how horrifying it was to die like that—suddenly, alone.
“You’re awake. I’ll fetch the nurse.”
I turned my head. In the neighbouring bed lay a plump woman of indeterminate age, wrapped in a flannel dressing gown patterned with daisies.
Soon, a nurse hurried in.
“How are you feeling?” she asked. Young, rosy-cheeked. Or maybe it was the effect of her pastel-blue uniform cap.
“Better,” I said. “What happened?”
“The doctor will explain.” With that, the nurse turned and left.
I caught sight of her waist-length blonde braid. *Do women still wear those?*
“You’re in gynaecology. They brought you in a couple hours ago. You slept like the dead, love,” said my roommate.
*Love.* Lately, I’d only been “madam” or “miss” in shops and buses. I felt ancient. But forty-two wasn’t old, was it? Maybe that’s why, whenever anyone tried setting me up, I’d wave them off. *Too late for me,* I’d say. That’s why I kept trying to leave Geoffrey—though he always came back.
“How are you feeling?” A doctor in his fifties stepped in.
“Doctor, what happened? Was I operated on? I feel like I swallowed a balloon.”
“Mrs. Wilkins, they’re waiting in the dressing room,” he said to my roommate.
She tugged her robe straight and shuffled out.
Grateful for the privacy, I met the doctor’s tired gaze.
“You had a laparotomy. An ectopic pregnancy—your tube ruptured.”
“*What?*” I nearly bolted upright. My muscles screamed in protest.
“Why the surprise?”
“I—I was told I couldn’t conceive.”
“Infertility doesn’t rule out ectopic—or even normal—pregnancies. Life’s full of surprises. Trust me. You’ll stay with us a few days.”
“Can I get up?”
“You *should*. But take it slow.” He left before I could ask more.
I stared at the ceiling, reeling. They’d said children were impossible. My husband left over it—though really, that was just his excuse for cheating. *Could I really get pregnant? At forty-two?* I cut myself off. *Why didn’t I ask the doctor?*
I sat up, swinging my legs over the side. My slippers waited by the bed; my robe hung on a hook. The paramedics must have grabbed them. No pain now, just soreness.
I slipped into the robe and stood. The room swayed faintly—*anaesthesia,* I guessed. Keys jingled in my pocket. *They locked my flat behind them.*
No mirror hung by the sink. I smoothed my hair with my hands and ventured into the corridor. I made it as far as the staff room door—locked, key still in it—before dizziness hit. I collapsed onto a lobby sofa, short of the nurses’ station.
*Would Geoffrey have been happy if he knew?* We’d met five years ago. *Married,* he’d said upfront. Late marriage. A young daughter.
It was intense, hopeless. I never expected more. I’d tried to end it countless times. He’d storm off but always return. At first, he promised to leave once his wife went back to work. His daughter started school. He never left. I stopped asking. *Last time,* I’d vow—but then he’d knock, and I’d let him in.
Voices snapped me back.
“Can you believe it? During surgery, Dr. Hartley found a tumour. Massive.”
The rosy-cheeked nurse.
“And?” Another voice, younger.
“Nothing. Stitched her up. Hartley said it’s terminal. Wilkins is being transferred to oncology tomorrow. Not even old, poor thing. Weeks left, max.”
“Awful.”
I stopped hearing. My pulse roared. *Wilkins—that’s me. They’re talking about me. Cancer? Terminal? Why didn’t Hartley say anything?*
Trembling, I staggered back to my room. Tears choked me.
My roommate returned. “Why the tears? Should I call someone?”
“No.” I fled to the corridor, then downstairs.
Sunlight bathed the hospital garden. Patients strolled; no one glanced at me.
*No. I won’t go to oncology. “Weeks left,” he said.* I remembered Mum—thirty rounds of chemo before she refused. Wasted. Yellow.
I turned toward the gates. I had nothing with me—just keys and my ID in the robe pocket. I wouldn’t endure what she had. I walked.
However long I had left, I’d spend it at home. At least I wouldn’t go bald. I rested on park benches along the way. September chill seeped through my gown. Passersby stared. *Let them.* None of it mattered.
At home, I scrubbed away the hospital smell. Boiled the kettle. My stomach ached, but bearably.
I swung between weeping and numbness. What had my life been? Who’d bury me? No one to visit my grave. Only Geoffrey might remember.
For three days, I barely moved. Then—energy. I stood before the mirror. Mum had withered, turned sallow. I looked the same. Always thin. Divorce. Mum’s illness. The funeral. Geoffrey’s exhausting love.
Yet with him, I’d been happy.
I blocked his number. He wouldn’t see me like this.
The flat needed tidying. A will—leave everything to Aunt Mabel, not strangers. I booked a solicitor. No jewels except my wedding ring and pearl earrings. Always dreamed of a fur coat. Never bought one.
Mission done, I fried eggs and ate hungrily.
That night, Mum visited my dreams—healthy, stern, like when she caught me skipping school to see a film. *Mum? Are you okay?* *I’m fine. But you—* *What did I do wrong?*
I woke screaming, heart hammering. The bedside lamp stayed on. I never slept again, puzzling over the dream.
Maybe the cemetery? They say the dead remind you when neglected.
Next day, I took the bus. It passed the hospital. On impulse, I got off.
“*Wilkins!* Running off—irresponsible! What if complications arose?” Dr. Hartley scolded like a headmaster. “Grown woman acting like a child. How do you feel?”
“Fine.”
“Come with me.”
“Why?” I stepped back. “I won’t go to oncology.”
“What nonsense? You’re perfectly fine.”
“Don’t humour me. I *heard* the nurses. Terminal. Weeks to—”
“*Which* nurse? This makes no sense.”
“At the station. I overheard—about Wilkins. That’s me.”
He sighed. “Come.”
I followed, the hospital smell tightening my throat. In his office, I perched on the edge of the chair, ready to bolt.
He slapped two files down. Both said *Wilkins*—but different first names. *Eleanor Margaret Wilkins. Isabel Moira Wilkins. 1971.*
I looked up. He was smiling.
“See? Common surname. Once, I had two patients—same name, same street. Different birth yearsShe laughed through her tears, realizing life had given her a second chance—and this time, she wouldn’t waste it.
