The soft drizzle needles her face, stinging her eyes. Emily trudges forward, longing to be home. Her thoughts blur like a frayed bedsheet as she skirts another puddle, nearly slipping on the slick pavement edge. “Enough with the heels. Time for sensible shoes.”
At last, the flat. The keypad buzzes her in. Dry, dusty heat from the radiators—still blasting despite spring—hits her like a wall. If only they’d worked this hard in winter. The lift groans its way to the fourth floor. “Am I falling ill?” she wonders, leaning against the mirrored wall. “No energy at all.”
In the hallway, she collapses onto the ottoman, presses her back to the wall, and shuts her heavy eyelids. “Home. Finally.” The words barely leave her lips before darkness swallows her whole.
“Mum? Why are you sitting in the dark? Are you okay?”
Jack’s voice startles her, but she doesn’t open her eyes.
“Just tired, love,” she murmurs, tongue thick.
She feels him watching. With effort, she pries her lids open—he’s gone, but the kitchen light spills into the hall. Kicking off her shoes, she flexes her toes and stands—only to sway into the coat rack.
“Mum!” Jack catches her before she falls.
“Bit dizzy,” she admits.
He guides her to the sofa. She sinks into the cushions, stretching her legs. “Heaven.” Her eyes flutter shut… then snap open as she jerks awake, meeting Jack’s worried gaze.
“You alright?”
She nods, asking for tea. Reluctantly, he leaves.
The memory surfaces: waking on the office floor, no recollection of falling. She’d blamed exhaustion then, too. “Thirty-nine, and I feel ancient. Maybe I am ill. GP tomorrow.” A sigh, then she shuffles to the kitchen.
“You’re pale. Headache?” Jack sets a steaming mug before her.
She forces a smile. “Just tired. This weather—rain all day.” A sip. “Have you eaten?”
“Yeah. Need to finish homework.”
“Go on, then.” She nurses the tea, changes into a worn dressing gown, and peeks into Jack’s room. He’s hunched over his books. A wave of tenderness drowns her. Her boy. Her whole world. She shuts the door quietly.
“Doctor, what’s wrong? Vitamins? Iron?” Next morning, Emily sits in the surgery, rested but still drained.
“Let’s see.” The doctor slides a referral across the desk. “Bloodwork and an MRI. Bring results straight back. Any family history of cancer? Stroke?”
“My dad had cancer. Mum died of a stroke. So, it’s…? My son’s fifteen. He’s got no one but me. I can’t—” Her voice cracks, the plea echoing off the sterile walls.
“Let’s not assume. Predisposition isn’t destiny. Rest, get tested. I’ll sort a sick note.”
“Mum, hospital? What’d they say?” Jack finds her stirring soup when he returns from school.
“Tests first. Don’t wake me tomorrow.”
She watches him eat. “So grown. What if it’s serious? A tumour?” She banishes the thought.
“You okay? You’ve gone all spacey again.”
“Just thinking.”
Night brings no rest. How could it, with dread gnawing at her? Memories flood in: her parents’ deaths during uni, meeting Daniel. He’d been her rock, a Northern lad in student digs. They moved in fast.
When she fell pregnant, he proposed immediately. No wedding—her parents gone, his mum too far. They visited her later.
Fights came, of course. No one to guide them. Emily bit her tongue when Daniel stayed out late. But when Jack turned two, he announced he’d fallen for someone else. Couldn’t stay.
She’d begged, clutched his shirt. He shoved her off and left. Nursery fees swallowed her wages. She took extra shifts, but bills piled up. Only once did she call him—when Jack needed expensive medicine. He transferred two hundred quid and sneered, “Where’s the child support going?”
When Jack asked about his dad, she told the truth. Later, he admitted stalking Daniel outside his office—too engrossed in some leggy blonde to notice his own son.
“It’s my fault he left, isn’t it?” Jack had asked once. “Mum, why don’t you wear makeup? Like his new wife?” How to explain she’d chosen his school shoes over mascara? That mentioning money might sound like blame?
Then came the rebellion—smokes in his pockets, slammed doors. She’d called Daniel, desperate. “Talk to him.”
“Got a newborn. No time. Or extra cash,” he’d snapped.
Her own talks with Jack ended in shouting matches, threats to run away. So much betrayal. So much ache.
But this past year, music had steadied him—guitar chords replacing slammed doors. Peace, at last. Now this: the fainting, the weakness. “Why? He’s got no one but me…”
In the hospital corridor, Emily studies the other patients—tense, inward-facing. “Do I look like that?”
“Miss? Your turn.” The voice jolts her.
Inside, she grips her handbag to still her trembling.
“I’ll be blunt. It’s a brain tumour. Small, shallow. That’s the only good news.”
“Cancer?”
She’d wondered how people kept breathing after such words. Yet here she is. The world hasn’t ended.
“Emergency surgery. Understood?”
“Yes. But I’ve no savings.”
“The NHS will cover it. One bloke’s wife died waiting for funding. You’re lucky.”
“Lucky,” she echoes, bitter.
“Precisely. It’s risky, but winnable. Go now. The slot’s yours.”
“I can’t. My son—”
“He’s fifteen. You might not see him hit eighteen. Go.”
So she goes. Calls Jack from the hospital. He arrives white-faced, hauling her overnight bag.
She smiles, memorising his face—just in case. He vows he’ll manage.
Alone at home, despair grips him. He digs out Daniel’s number (copied once in anger, never used) and dials.
Gudjons. Then: “Yeah?”
A stranger’s voice. But whose else?
“Dad. It’s Jack. Mum’s in hospital. Surgery tomorrow… Dad?”
A pause. “You alone there?”
“I’m fifteen. Oh—you mean a stepdad? She never remarried. Dad, I’m scared.”
“I’ll call back.” The line dies.
Jack hurls the phone. “Coward!” He sobs until his ribs ache.
Next day, he skips school for the hospital. Paces the corridor, bargaining with no one: “Just let her live. I’ll never shout again.”
The surgeon emerges. “Success. She’s in recovery. Go home.”
Next morning, they let him in. Bandages swallow her head.
“Mum?”
Her eyes slit open. “Jack.”
She knows him. He strokes her hand.
“Doc says you’ll be okay. I didn’t bring—”
“Got all I need,” she whispers.
Later, Daniel calls. Jack answers curtly.
“You’re angry? I’ve a newborn—”
“Another fur coat for the wife? Or diamonds? Maybe a tummy tuck?” Jack’s voice splinters.
“Watch your mouth!”
Jack hangs up. Doesn’t tell her.
“You’ll get better,” he promises her still form. “No more fights.”
He keeps that vow. Rushes home after school, terrified of finding her gone. If they clash, he bites back words—remembering how close he came to losing her.
Who cares if she wears no makeup, no designer labels? She’s his. His mum.
*No illness, no health cherished. No poverty, no gratitude for plenty. No faithlessness, no value in loyalty. No death, no love of life.*
