The gentle rain stung her face, trickling into her eyes. Pauline trudged along, longing for the warmth of home. Her mind was clouded, thoughts unraveling like an old, tattered bedsheet. Sidestepping yet another puddle, she nearly slipped on the slick mud at the pavement’s edge. “Enough with the heels. I’m not a girl anymore. Time for sensible shoes.”
At last, home. Pauline keyed in the entry code, the door creaking open. The stale, dusty warmth from the radiator—blasting at full strength despite spring’s arrival—hit her nostrils. If only it had been this warm in winter. The lift groaned as it carried her to the sixth floor. “Am I falling ill? I’ve no strength left,” she thought, leaning against the wall of the cramped cabin.
In the hallway, she collapsed onto the ottoman, pressing her back to the wall as her heavy eyelids fluttered shut. “Home. Finally.” She exhaled and slipped into a darkness devoid of sound or scent.
“Mum, why are you sitting in the dark? Are you alright?”
The sound of Alfie’s voice startled her, but she didn’t open her eyes.
“No, love. Just tired,” Pauline murmured, her tongue sluggish.
She sensed him standing there, watching. Forcing her eyes open, she found the kitchen light on—but Alfie was gone. Kicking off her shoes, she wiggled her cramped toes and stood—only to sway dangerously toward the coat rack.
“Mum!” Alfie darted forward, steadying her before she could fall.
“My head’s spinning.”
He helped her to the sofa, where she sank back, stretching her legs. “Bliss.” Her eyes drifted shut again—until she jerked awake moments later, meeting Alfie’s anxious gaze.
“Mum, are you okay?”
She nodded and asked for tea. Reluctantly, he shuffled off to the kitchen.
Her mind wandered back to the office, to waking on the floor of her office, no memory of how she’d fallen. She’d blamed exhaustion then, too. “I feel ancient, and I’m only thirty-nine. Maybe I really am ill. I’ll see the doctor tomorrow.” With a sigh, she pushed herself up and headed to the kitchen.
“You’re pale. Headache?” Alfie set a steaming mug before her.
She forced a smile. “Just tired. The rain…” She took a sip. “Have you eaten?”
“Yeah. Got homework to finish.”
“Go on, then. I’m fine.” She nursed the tea, then changed into a well-worn dressing gown and peeked into Alfie’s room. Bent over his books, he looked so grown. Her heart swelled. Her boy—her only, her everything. She shut the door softly.
“Doctor, what’s wrong with me? Do I need vitamins?” The next morning, Pauline sat in the surgery, exhausted despite a full night’s sleep.
“We’ll see. Here’s paperwork for tests and an MRI. Bring the results straight to me. Any family history of cancer or strokes?”
“Yes. My father had cancer. My mother died of a stroke. So it could be… I have a son. He’s only fifteen. He’s got no one but me. I can’t die!” Her cry echoed off the walls, lodging in her throat like a stone.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions. Predisposition isn’t destiny—you’re young yet. Take this sick note, rest, and get those tests done.”
“Mum, you saw the doctor? What did he say?” Alfie found her cooking soup when he returned from school.
“Just sent me for tests. Don’t wake me tomorrow.”
She watched him eat. “So grown. What if it’s serious? Cancer? Best not to think.”
“You’re zoning out again,” Alfie said.
She startled.
“You’ve been so distant lately.”
“Just thinking.”
Sleep wouldn’t come. How could it, with such dread gnawing at her? Memories surfaced—her parents, lost one after the other during her university years. Then came Edward. He’d been her rock, a fellow student living in halls. They’d moved in together almost at once.
When she fell pregnant, Edward rejoiced. They married quietly—no fuss, no family to celebrate. Of course, they fought. No one was there to guide them. Pauline swallowed her pride when Edward lingered after work. But when Alfie was two, Edward confessed he’d fallen for another woman.
She’d wept, clutched at his shirt. He’d shoved her aside and left. She’d returned to work, scraping by on odd jobs. Alfie was often ill. Once, desperate for medicine, she’d called Edward. He’d sent two hundred quid and sneered, “What do you do with the child support?”
When Alfie asked about his father, she told him the truth. Later, he admitted trailing Edward outside his office—but Edward, arm in arm with a glamorous woman, hadn’t noticed.
“Why don’t you dress like her?” Alfie had asked once. How could she explain? That every penny went to him? That she feared sounding resentful?
Then came the teenage defiance—the shouting, the cigarettes in his pockets. She’d called Edward, begging him to talk to their son. “I’ve a newborn now. No time. No spare cash, either.”
For a year, though, Alfie had settled, strumming his guitar at home. Calm at last. And now this—the fainting, the weakness. “Lord, why? I can’t leave him. He’s got no one but me…”
In the surgery waiting room, Pauline studied the other patients—pale, drawn, lost in their own dread. “Do I look like that?”
“Miss? It’s your turn.” She hadn’t realised they’d called her name.
Inside, she gripped her handbag to still her shaking hands.
“I’ll be blunt. You have a brain tumour. Small, superficial. That’s the only good news.”
“Cancer?”
She’d always wondered how people carried on after such words. Yet here she was, speaking, not screaming. The world hadn’t ended.
“You need surgery. Immediately. There’s a quota—free treatment. Be grateful. Some don’t live long enough to qualify.”
“Grateful,” she echoed, smiling bitterly.
“Exactly. Any operation’s a risk, especially on the brain. But you’ve a real chance. Go now. Tomorrow, the funding may go to someone else.”
“I can’t. My son’s only fifteen.” The words stuck in her throat.
“Fifteen’s grown enough. You might not live to see him older. Go. Now.”
So she went. Called Alfie from the hospital, asked him to bring her things. He came at once.
She tried not to think this might be goodbye, forced a smile. Alfie, too, put on a brave face.
Alone at home, despair overwhelmed him. He dredged up his father’s number—saved after a row with his mother, never dialled.
The ringing stretched. He nearly hung up when a man’s voice answered.
“Hello?”
Alfie didn’t recognise it, but who else would answer?
“Dad. It’s Alfie. Mum’s in hospital. Surgery tomorrow… Dad?”
Silence. Then: “You’re alone?”
“I’m fifteen. No, Mum didn’t remarry. Dad, I’m scared.”
“I’ll call back—” The line went dead.
Alfie hurled the phone. “Coward. Traitor!” He wept, furious, helpless.
The next day, he skipped school, waiting outside the operating theatre. He didn’t pray—just imagined her well, coming home. Promised silently: no more shouting, no more fights.
The surgeon emerged. “Success. She’ll be in recovery—no visitors today. Go home.”
The following day, they let him in. She lay bandaged, eyes closed.
“Mum?”
Her eyelids fluttered. “Alfie.”
She knew him. Relief flooded him as he squeezed her hand.
“The doctor says you’ll be fine. I didn’t bring anything—”
“I’ve all I need,” she whispered.
Later, his father called. Alfie answered curtly.
“You’re angry? I couldn’t come. My wife just had a baby—”
“Another fur coat for her? Diamonds? Liposuction? Or maybe a boob job?” His voice cracked.
“How dare you speak to me like that?”
Alfie hung up. Didn’t tell his mother.
“The doctor says you’ll recover. I’ll never shout again. Promise.”
He kept his word. Rushed home after school, terrified she’d relapse. When tensions rose, he remembered how close he’d come to losing her. Arguing wasn’t worth it.
So what if she wore no makeup, dressed plainly? To him, she was perfect. His mum.
“Without sickness, we’d not cherish health. Without hardship, we’d not know comfort. Without doubt, we’d not value faith. WithoutAnd in the quiet evenings, as the kettle whistled on the stove and Alfie’s guitar filled the flat with clumsy chords, Pauline would smooth her hand over her scar, smile, and think—this, right here, was enough.
