“I knew you could hear me, Mum,” whispered six-year-old Oliver, tugging at his grandmother’s sleeve.
“Gran, will you tell me a story?” he asked, his blue eyes wide with hope.
“Only a short one. It’s past your bedtime. You’ll never wake up for nursery tomorrow,” Martha replied, tucking the duvet around him.
“I will,” Oliver promised, nestling deeper into his pillow.
Martha switched off the main light, leaving only the soft glow of the bedside lamp. She reached for a book from the shelf, slipped on her reading glasses, and perched on the edge of his bed.
“Not like that—lie down with me,” Oliver insisted, shuffling over to make room.
“I’ll fall asleep,” Martha sighed, but the pleading look in his eyes melted her resolve. She lay down beside him, and he immediately curled into her side with a sleepy yawn.
As she read, Martha kept one ear tuned to Oliver’s steady breathing. When she was sure he was asleep, she carefully slipped out of bed and tiptoed from the room, gently closing the door behind her.
In the kitchen, she touched the side of the kettle. Still warm. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat at the table. “Where’s Emily? It’s past eleven, and she promised to be back by nine. Maybe she stayed at her friend’s? She could’ve called. Should I ring her? What if she’s driving? Distracting her could cause an accident. God forbid.” She crossed herself toward the small icon on the shelf. “I’ll wait a little longer.”
She took a sip and grimaced. The tea had gone cold. She tipped it down the sink and moved to the window, staring into the thick, unsettling darkness outside.
Suddenly, the sharp ringtone of her phone shattered the silence. Martha jumped, rushing to silence it before it woke Oliver. She froze when she saw the unfamiliar number—not Emily’s face flashing on the screen.
Scammers? Too late for them. Or had Emily’s phone died? She answered.
“Good evening. Detective Inspector Harris. Is Emily Carter your daughter?”
“Yes. What’s happened? Why—”
“How should I address you?” the man’s detached voice cut in.
“Martha Wilson.”
“Martha, please try to stay calm—”
“How can I stay calm? The police don’t call at night for no reason. Or are you a scammer? Going to ask me for money? Well, I haven’t got any, and even if I did, you wouldn’t get a penny. Why aren’t you saying anything?”
“Emily was involved in a collision on the motorway…”
After those words, Martha stopped hearing anything else. Her hand flew to her chest, trying to steady her pounding heart. The inspector kept speaking, but his voice faded into noise. She took a sharp breath and coughed, tears prickling her eyes.
“Just tell me—” Her voice was hoarse. “Is she alive?”
“Yes, but in a coma. It’s serious.”
“Which hospital?” The words clawed their way out of her throat.
“St. Mary’s, but there’s no point coming now. She’s in surgery. Visit tomorrow, and the consultant will explain. Do you know why she was on the motorway?”
“Wait, how do you know about Oliver?”
“From her phone contacts. Why was she on the motorway tonight?” the inspector repeated. Harris? Hodgson? Martha couldn’t even focus on his name.
“I don’t—” She stopped. “She went to a friend’s birthday. I told her not to go…” Martha shook her head, as if he could see her. “She promised to be back by nine. Oliver was waiting… Oh God, what do I tell him when he wakes up?”
“So she was at a birthday party. Could she have been drinking?”
“How dare you? She’s a responsible woman—she’d never drink knowing she had to drive home to her son,” Martha said hotly. Then, privately: *Or would she?* “Maybe she stayed over and changed her mind…”
“Sorry to disturb you.” The line went dead.
“Disturb me? That’s one word for it.”
Martha longed to rush to the hospital, but Oliver was asleep upstairs. She dragged herself up from the stool, her legs weak. She opened the fridge and took out the bottle of calming drops. Counting them into a glass, she lost track, shook the bottle hard, and splashed in more than necessary.
“To be sure,” she muttered, topping it up with water from the kettle and knocking it back without flinching.
She sat clutching the bottle, whispering, “Dear God, bring Emily back to us. She has a son—don’t leave that boy motherless.” She made the sign of the cross, fervent and wide.
She prayed until exhaustion pulled her under.
“Gran, wake up! Gran. Has Mum come home?”
Oliver was shaking her shoulder. Martha surfaced from a heavy sleep, the memory of last night’s call rushing back. She was fully awake in an instant.
“No. She called and said she stayed over,” Martha lied, though she knew the truth would have to come out soon.
“You’re lying. I heard you talking to someone. It wasn’t Mum.”
“Oliver… your mum’s in hospital,” Martha admitted, pulling him close so he wouldn’t see her tears.
“Is she sick?” Oliver wriggled free, panicked.
“Yes. She had an operation. I… maybe you could stay with Auntie Joan next door while I go see her?”
Oliver shook his head fiercely. “I’m coming with you!”
“Alright. Go wash up, and I’ll put the kettle on.” She nudged him toward the door, then swayed on her feet. “Just what I need.” She set the kettle boiling and went to check her blood pressure—too high. The medicine box was missing the right tablets.
The kettle whistled, pulling her back.
At the hospital, the doctor met them. “She’s stable. The surgery went well, but she’s still in a coma.”
“Is Mummy going to die?” Oliver gasped.
“We’re doing everything to prevent that,” the doctor assured.
Martha pressed her fingers together but didn’t cross herself. “Can we see her? She loves Oliver. Maybe if she hears his voice… People in comas can hear, can’t they?”
The doctor hesitated, glancing between Martha’s desperate face and Oliver’s wide, frightened eyes. “Alright. Just a short visit—and no upsetting her.”
Oliver nodded, already blinking back tears.
Martha hurried after the doctor, gripping Oliver’s hand. “I *told* her not to go…”
Outside the ICU, the doctor reminded them to keep quiet. They barely heard, impatient to get inside.
Even up close, Martha barely recognised Emily—bandaged, bruised, and pale.
“Emily, love, we’re here. Oliver’s with me. Wake up, darling,” Martha whispered, swallowing tears.
Oliver just stared.
Later, on the bus home, he said, “Grown-ups never tell the truth. I know she can’t hear us. If she could, she’d wake up. What if she dies? Will you send me to foster care? You’re old.”
Martha only caught the last bit. “I’m not *old*. And who put that idea in your head? You’re staying with me. When your mum wakes up, I’ll tell her what you said. You’ll be ashamed.”
Days passed. Martha visited daily, talking to Emily as if she could hear. Oliver, at first desperate to come, gradually settled back into nursery—though he sat alone, drawing.
Hope flickered weakly in Martha. Then Emily’s ex-husband, Oliver’s father, reappeared—unkempt, reeking of drink.
“Which hospital is she in? Maybe I can help,” he said.
“How? By hurrying her along? *That* you could do.”
He feigned outrage. “I’m here out of concern!”
“What concern? You never cared before.”
“I want Oliver while Emily’s ill. I’m his father. You’re… not well. What if something happens to you?”
“Over my dead body. No court would give him to you.”
“Try me. I’m young—you’re not.”
Martha shoved him toward the door. “Get out. Emily will wake up.”
But doubt gnawed at her.
Oliver, when asked, refused outright. “I don’t want to go with him.”
“Good. If he comes to nursery, don’t go with him.”
At the hospital one day, Oliver gripped Emily’s hand. “Mum, I’m here. Dad came, but Gran sent him away. Wake up…” He gasped. “Gran, her fingers moved! She *heard* me!”
The monitors beeped frantically. The doctor ushered them out.
An eternity later, he called them back. Emily’s eyes were open.
“Sweetheart…” Martha choked.
“Mum, you heard me, didn’t you? I knew it!” Oliver trembled.
A tear slipped from Emily”And as Oliver clung to her hand, whispering promises of forever, Martha knew that love, not just medicine, had truly brought her daughter back.”
