I knew you could hear me, Mum,” whispered young Oliver.
“Gran, will you tell me a story?” asked the six-year-old, snuggling under his blanket.
“Only a short one. It’s past your bedtime—you won’t wake up for nursery tomorrow,” Margaret chided gently, tucking him in.
“I will,” he promised.
She switched off the ceiling light, leaving only the bedside lamp glowing, fetched a book from the shelf, slipped on her reading glasses, and perched once more on the edge of his small bed.
“Not like that—lie down with me,” Oliver pleaded, shifting to make room.
“I’ll fall asleep,” Margaret sighed, but the boy’s pleading gaze was irresistible. She settled beside him, and he immediately curled closer, his yawn muffled against her.
She began to read, pausing now and then to listen for his steady breathing. When she was sure he slept, she slipped away, easing the door shut behind her.
In the kitchen, she pressed a hand to the kettle—still warm, perhaps. She poured herself a cup of tea and sank into a chair. “Where’s Lucy? It’s gone eleven. She promised to return by nine. Maybe she stayed overnight with a friend? But she’d have rung. Should I call her? No—what if she’s driving? I’d only distract her. Heaven forbid.” She crossed herself toward the small icon on the shelf. “I’ll wait a little longer.”
She took a sip and grimaced. Cold. The tea went down the sink. She moved to the window, where the night pressed thick and uneasy against the glass.
Then, sharp as a blade, the phone rang. The sudden burst of sound made her jump. She lunged for it, silencing the jarring ringtone before it woke Oliver. The screen flashed with an unknown number—not Lucy’s face.
Scammers? Too late for them. Or had her daughter’s phone died? Hesitating, she answered.
“Hello. Inspector Whitmore speaking. Is Lucy Whitmore your daughter?”
“Yes. What’s happened? Why—”
“How should I address you?” the man’s flat voice cut in.
“Margaret Davies.”
“Margaret, try to stay calm—”
“How can I stay calm? The police don’t call at midnight for no reason. Is this some trick? Are you going to ask for money? I haven’t any, and if I did, you wouldn’t get it. Why aren’t you answering?”
“Lucy was in an accident on the motorway…”
After those words, Margaret heard nothing else. Her hand clutched at her chest, as if she could steady the wild, uneven pounding. The inspector spoke on, relentless. She drew a sharp breath—then coughed, tears stinging her eyes.
“Just tell me—” Her voice frayed. “Is she alive?”
“Yes, but in a coma. It’s serious.”
“Which hospital?” The words scraped from her throat.
“St. Mary’s, but don’t come now. She’s in surgery. Visit tomorrow—the doctor will explain. Do you know why she was on the motorway?” The question came without pause.
“Wait—how do you know about her son?”
“From her phone contacts. Why was she on the motorway?” he repeated. Whitmore… or was it Wilson? She scrabbled for his name, as if it mattered more than anything.
“I don’t—” Her answer was automatic before she caught herself. “She went to a friend’s birthday. I told her not to…” Her head shook, though he couldn’t see. “She promised to be back by nine. Her boy was waiting… Oh God, what do I tell him when he wakes?”
“So it was a birthday party. Could she have been drinking?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! She’s responsible—she knew she had to drive home to her son. She wouldn’t risk it.” But privately, doubt slithered in. “Maybe she changed her mind and decided to stay over…”
“Sorry to disturb you.” The line went dead.
“Disturb me? He’s ruined me. What do I do now?”
Every instinct screamed at her to rush to the hospital, but Oliver slept upstairs. Her legs trembled as she hauled herself up from the stool. She yanked open the fridge, rummaging for the small bottle of sedative drops. Counting under her breath, she tipped them into a cup, lost track, shook the bottle harder—then spilled a pungent stream.
“Just to be sure,” she muttered, filling the cup with water from the kettle and swallowing it in one go without a flinch.
She sank back onto the stool, clutching the empty vial.
“Lord, save Lucy, your servant. Don’t leave her boy an orphan.” Her trembling fingers sketched the sign of the cross toward the icon.
She prayed until exhaustion dragged her eyes shut.
“Gran, wake up! Gran. Has Mum come home?”
Oliver shook her shoulder. Margaret swam up from a thick, drugged sleep. Memory of the call crashed over her, jolting her fully awake.
“No. She rang—said she was staying over,” she lied, though she knew the truth would have to come. Sooner or later, he’d learn.
“You’re fibbing. I heard you talking to someone. It wasn’t Mum.”
“Oliver… your mum’s in hospital,” she confessed, pulling him close so he wouldn’t see her tears.
“Is she sick?” He wriggled free, panic bright in his eyes.
“Yes. She had an operation. I thought… maybe you could stay with Auntie Joan next door while I go and see her?”
He shook his head hard.
“I’m going with you!”
“All right. Wash up while I put the kettle on.” She nudged him toward the door, then swayed on her feet. “Just what I need.” She set the kettle on the stove and shuffled to the sitting room to take her blood pressure. High, of course. She fumbled through the medicine box—no tablets left.
The kettle whistled. She abandoned the search.
“It’s serious. The operation went well, but she’s in a coma,” the doctor told them when they arrived at St. Mary’s.
“Is Mum going to die?” Oliver blurted.
“We’re doing all we can. Believe me, we’re trying,” the doctor said.
“Lord…” Margaret’s fingers twitched toward a cross she didn’t complete. “Can we see her? She loves her son. If she hears his voice… They say coma patients can hear. Maybe it’ll help?”
The doctor studied her, then Oliver’s wobbling lip.
“Five minutes. No crying—understand?”
Oliver nodded, but his eyes swam.
“I told her not to go… I knew,” Margaret gasped, struggling to keep pace with the doctor’s long strides. Oliver’s hand was a vise in hers, though he didn’t complain.
At the ICU door, the doctor turned. “No noise. No shouting. No tears.”
They nodded, impatient, already straining toward the room.
Even at the bedside, Margaret barely recognized Lucy—bandaged, bruised, her face a map of cuts.
“Lucy, love, we’re here. Oliver’s with me. Wake up, darling, we’re waiting,” Margaret whispered, swallowing back sobs.
Oliver just stared, wide-eyed.
“Grown-ups never tell the truth. She can’t hear us. If she could, she’d wake up. What if she dies? Will you send me to a home? You’re old,” Oliver mused on the walk to the bus stop.
Margaret caught only the last part.
“I’m not old—I’m mature. And who put that idea in your head? You’re staying with me. When your mum wakes, I’ll tell her what you said. You’ll be ashamed.”
Each day, Margaret visited, murmuring to Lucy about how much they missed her. At first, Oliver begged to come, but soon he returned to nursery—though he sat apart, drawing alone. Margaret warned the teacher not to push him.
Hope dimmed with every passing day. Margaret fought the thoughts, but they crept in: What if Lucy never woke?
Then Lucy’s ex-husband, Oliver’s father, turned up. How had he even heard? He rarely visited, and never for the boy—only to whine to Lucy about his woes, hoping she’d take him back. He never had money, just cheap toys from the corner shop. Unshaven, glassy-eyed—Margaret’s sharp eyes spotted the drink in him at once.
“Which hospital? Can I help?”
“How? By hurrying her along? That’s all you’re good for,” she snapped.
“That’s cruel, Margaret. I came with good intentions—”
“Good intentions? What, exactly?”
“I want my son while Lucy’s ill. I’m his father. You’re… unwell. Not getting younger. If something happens to you, who’ll care for him?”
“Don’t even think it. Nothing will happen to me. And Oliver stays with me. You’ve never cared—just swanned in when it suited you”But as days turned to weeks, Lucy’s fingers finally twitched, her eyes fluttered open, and in that fragile, sunlit moment, Margaret knew their prayers had been answered—Oliver’s small hand in hers, the steady beep of the monitor, and the whisper of her daughter’s first word: *Mum*. “
