**Diary Entry**
I knew you could hear me, Mum.
“Gran, will you tell me a story?” asked six-year-old Oliver, shuffling under his duvet.
“Only a short one. You should’ve been asleep ages ago. You won’t wake up for school tomorrow,” murmured Emily, tucking him in.
“I will,” he promised.
Emily switched off the main light, leaving just the bedside lamp on, grabbed a book from the shelf, slipped on her reading glasses, and perched on the edge of his bed.
“Not like that—lie next to me,” Oliver insisted, scooting over to make space.
“I’ll fall asleep like this.” But his pleading eyes got the better of her, and with a sigh, she settled beside him. He immediately snuggled closer and yawned.
Emily began reading, pausing now and then to listen to his steady breathing. When she was sure he was asleep, she carefully slipped away, tiptoeing out and shutting the door softly 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 Sophie? It’s nearly midnight, and she promised to be back by nine. Maybe she stayed over at her friend’s? She could’ve called. Should I ring her? But what if she’s driving? The last thing she needs is a distraction. God forbid.* She crossed herself toward the little cross on the shelf. *I’ll wait a bit longer.*
She took a sip and winced. The tea had gone cold. She tipped it down the sink and moved to the window, staring into the thick, restless darkness outside.
Suddenly, her phone blared to life with an upbeat ringtone. Startled, she fumbled for it, desperate to silence it before it woke Oliver. Her heart pounded as she stared at the screen—unknown number. Not Sophie’s face.
Scammers? Too late for them. Maybe Sophie’s battery died? She answered.
“Hello. Detective Inspector Harris speaking. Is Sophie Charlotte Williams your daughter?”
“Yes. What’s happened? Why—”
“May I have your name, please?” The voice was flat, detached.
“Emily Margaret Cooper.”
“Emily, try not to panic—”
“Don’t tell me not to panic! The police don’t call at this hour for nothing. Or are you some fraudster? Going to ask for money next? Well, you won’t get a penny! Why aren’t you answering?”
“Sophie was involved in an accident on the motorway…”
Everything after “accident” blurred. Emily clutched her chest, willing her heart to steady. The inspector kept talking. She inhaled sharply, then coughed, tears pricking her eyes.
“Just tell me… is she alive?” Her voice was a shaken whisper.
“Yes, but in a coma. Critical condition.”
“Which hospital?” The words scraped her throat raw.
“St. Mary’s, but don’t rush over now. You’re with her son? Stay with him. She’s still in surgery. Come tomorrow—the consultant will explain everything. What was she doing on the motorway?”
“Hold on—how do you know about my grandson?”
“From her phone contacts. Why was she on the motorway tonight?”
Emily couldn’t even recall his surname now. Harris? Hodgson? None of it mattered.
“I don’t… She was at a friend’s birthday. I told her not to go…” She shook her head, forgetting he couldn’t see. “She promised to be back by nine. Oliver was waiting… Oh God, what do I tell him when he wakes?”
“A birthday party… Could she have had a drink?”
“How dare you! She’s responsible—she knew Oliver was waiting. She wouldn’t!” *But would she?* “Maybe she changed her mind about staying over…”
“Sorry to disturb you.” The line went dead.
*Disturb me? He might as well have stabbed me.*
She longed to race to the hospital, but Oliver. She sagged onto a chair, trembling. The fridge yielded a bottle of valerian drops. She counted them into a glass, lost track, then tipped a generous splash.
“To be sure,” she muttered, adding water and knocking it back without flinching.
Seated again, clutching the bottle, she whispered, *”Lord, save Sophie, thy servant. Her boy needs her—don’t leave him an orphan.”* She crossed herself fiercely toward the shelf.
She prayed until exhaustion dragged her under.
“Gran, wake up! Gran. Is Mum back?”
Oliver was shaking her shoulder. Emily surfaced slowly, last night’s call flooding back. She blinked awake.
“No. She rang—said she was staying over,” she lied, though she knew the truth would come out. Sooner better than later.
“You’re fibbing. I heard you talking. It wasn’t her.”
“Ollie… Mum’s in hospital.” She pulled him close so he wouldn’t see her tears.
“Is she sick?” He wriggled free, panicked.
“Yes. She had an operation. Maybe… could you stay with Auntie Margaret next door? I’ll pop to the hospital quick and find out—”
He shook his head fiercely. “I’m coming!”
“Alright. Wash up, then. I’ll put the kettle on.” She nudged him toward the door, then swayed on her feet. *Perfect.* The kettle whistled as she checked her blood pressure—high, of course. Her pills were missing.
“Critical condition. The surgery went well, but she’s still comatose,” the consultant said when they arrived.
“Will Mummy die?” Oliver gasped.
“We’re doing everything to prevent that,” the doctor assured.
Emily’s fingers twitched toward a cross but didn’t complete it. “Can we see her? She adores him—if she hears his voice… People in comas hear loved ones, don’t they? Maybe it’ll help?”
The doctor studied Oliver’s wide, wet eyes. “Alright. Briefly. And no tears—understand?”
The boy nodded, lip wobbling.
“I begged her not to go…” Emily panted, struggling to keep up with the doctor’s long strides. Oliver winced as she crushed his hand but didn’t pull away.
Outside ICU, the doctor reiterated: no noise, no crying.
They barely listened, desperate to get inside.
Even at the bedside, Emily barely recognised Sophie—bandaged, bruised.
“Darling, we’re here. Ollie’s with me. Wake up, love. We need you,” she murmured, swallowing tears. Oliver just stared.
“Grown-ups never tell the truth. She can’t hear us. If she could, she’d wake up. What if she dies? Will I go to a home? You’re old,” Oliver mused on the bus home.
Emily caught only the last bit. “I’m not old—I’m mature. And who put that in your head? You’re staying with me. When Mum wakes, I’ll tell her what you said. You’ll be ashamed.”
Every day, she visited, whispering to Sophie how much they missed her. Oliver stopped asking to come, withdrawing into his drawings at school. Emily told the teacher to let him be.
Her hope dimmed daily. And then Sophie’s ex—Oliver’s father—appeared. How’d he even know? He rarely visited, and never for the boy—just to whinge to Sophie, hoping she’d take him back. Always skint. Came empty-handed or with some cheap toy from Tesco. Dishevelled, reeking of drink. Emily knew the signs.
“Which hospital? Can I help?”
“How? By hurrying her along? That’s all you’re good for.”
“How cruel, Emily. I come in good faith—”
“Good faith? Really?”
“I want my son while Sophie’s ill. I’m his father. You’re… unwell. If anything happens—”
“Over my dead body. No court would give you custody. You’ve never cared for him.”
“I’ll manage.”
“You’re jobless! You’ll feed him takeaways? Forget to pick him up?”
“I’ll sort it. You’re pale—should you even have him? I’ll sue.”
Emily shoved him toward the door. “Try it. He’s staying with me.”
Oliver was firm later: “I don’t want to go with him.”
“Good. If he comes to school, tell the teacher.”
At the hospital, Oliver pressed his hand into Sophie’s. “Mum, I’m here. You hear me? Gran chased Dad away. I won’t go, even if he buys me toys. He threatened court. Wake up…” He froze. “Her fingers moved! Gran, she heard me!”
The monitor beeped wildly. The doctor shooed them out.
An eternity later, the door opened. Sophie’s eyes were open.
“Darling… thank God,” Emily choked.
“Mum, you heard me, right? I love you,” Oliver whispered.
A tear slid from Sophie’s eye into the bandagesSlowly but surely, Sophie regained her strength, and as the months passed, their little family healed together, stronger than before.
