Life is Full of Surprises
“Mum, I’m off,” said Emily, poking her head into the kitchen.
Lydia turned away from the stove and studied her daughter carefully.
“What?” Emily sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes.
“Nothing. Why are you all dressed up at this hour? Even put on makeup. Got a date? Don’t stay out too late, alright?”
“Alright,” Emily muttered reluctantly before quickly slipping out.
*She’s grown up so fast,* Lydia thought with a sigh. She covered the frying pan with a lid and walked to the large mirror in the hall. *Where did my seventeen-year-old self go? Time flew by so quickly. I thought I had my whole life ahead of me, and now more than half is gone. School dragged on forever, and then life just sped downhill—university, marriage… Happiness peeked through like sunshine behind clouds, then vanished again.* She smoothed her hair. *Oh well. My daughter’s clever and beautiful… Oh, the potatoes—*
Lydia gasped and rushed back to the kitchen, grabbing the hot lid. She nearly dropped it, hissing in pain as she blew on her scorched fingers. *Too busy fussing in front of the mirror and nearly burnt dinner…*
She ate alone, barely tasting the food, then settled on the sofa to watch a drama on BBC Two. Outside, the sky darkened quickly. She didn’t notice when she dozed off—until her phone rang. Still groggy, she didn’t check the caller ID, assuming it was Emily. Who else would call so late? She didn’t have close friends, just work acquaintances bound by shared loneliness.
A man’s voice startled her.
“Are you Emily Carter’s mother?”
“Who is this?” Lydia asked cautiously.
“This is Dr. Hughes from St. Mary’s Hospital. You need to come in—your daughter’s been in an accident. She needs emergency surgery. Since she’s under eighteen, we require your consent—”
“Surgery? What—” But the call had already ended.
She tried to make sense of it. *It must be a mistake. Emily just went out. What accident?* But the doctor knew her name. Her head felt sluggish from the nap. Forcing herself to focus, she repeated *St. Mary’s*, called a taxi, changed quickly, grabbed her bag, and bolted from the flat. She took the stairs two at a time—no time to wait for the lift. Outside, the taxi was already pulling up, headlights blinding.
“Please, hurry… My daughter’s at the hospital,” she begged, breathless from running.
The whole ride, Lydia oscillated between urging the driver to speed up—so she could confirm it was a mistake—and secretly wishing he’d slow down, delaying the looming dread squeezing her heart.
She burst into A&E and immediately spotted a boy in a dirty jacket on a gurney. His face was scratched, a plaster above his eyebrow, his expression dazed.
“Where’s my daughter? What did you do to her?!” She grabbed his jacket, shaking him.
“It wasn’t my fault! A car swerved round the bend—I tried to avoid it, but they clipped us—I swear—”
“Who hit you? Why?” Lydia shrieked, barely comprehending.
“What’s all this noise?” An older doctor strode in, his bushy salt-and-pepper moustache catching her eye. “You’re Mrs. Carter? Sign this consent form.”
“What surgery? Where is she?!”
“She’s unconscious. A subdural hematoma—pressure’s building. If we don’t stop the bleeding, she— Just sign here.” He pushed a pen and paper into her hands.
The medical jargon spun in her head, the text blurring. She scribbled her name, then collapsed onto the gurney beside the boy. The doctor vanished.
“I don’t understand… She just went out,” Lydia whispered, rocking.
“We were hanging out, then I suggested a ride on my bike—”
Lydia whipped her head toward him.
“This is *your* fault!”
The boy flinched from her glare.
“I’m *not*— The driver didn’t even stop to see if we were alive—”
“Thomas! You alright?” A tall man rushed in. The boy—Thomas—jumped up and clung to him.
“Dad, it wasn’t my fault! The car came out of nowhere—if I hadn’t swerved, they’d have crushed us— A passerby brought us here. The doc said if we’d been ten minutes later, Emily would’ve—” He broke into sobs.
His father held him, rubbing his back.
“I believe you. Did you get the license plate? Colour, make? Where it happened? I’ll find them.”
“Oh, *you’ll* find them?” Lydia sneered. “*Your* son’s fine, but my girl— Because of *him*—”
“Who’s this?” the man asked Thomas.
“Emily’s mum.”
His father handed Lydia a business card. “Call if you need anything.” She turned away, so he tucked it into her open handbag. “Come on, son, let’s go home.”
“But Emily—”
“Her mum’s here. They won’t let you see her.” He glanced at Lydia. “Need a lift?”
She didn’t answer, arms wrapped around herself.
Alone, Lydia noticed a tiny cross tucked behind the mirror above the sink. Stiff-legged, she walked over.
“Save my daughter. She’s only seventeen. I can’t live without her… Take my life, do anything, just save her…”
She lost track of time, repeating the words like a mantra. People came and went, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
“You’re still here? The surgery went well—bleeding’s stopped, hematoma removed…”
Lydia turned abruptly. The doctor looked exhausted, his moustache drooping, his face ashen in the dawn light.
“She’s alive—” The fear receded, her legs buckling.
“Sit.” He guided her to a chair, speaking words that barely registered. He offered water; she batted it away, spilling it on his hand.
“Sorry.”
“Go home. She’ll sleep till morning. Come back tomorrow.”
Too numb to argue, she shuffled outside and sank onto a bench, shivering as the sky brightened. Birds chirped, greeting the new day. After a while, she crept back inside.
The A&E doors were unlocked. Empty. She tiptoed to a sofa in the corridor, closed her eyes…
“You never left?” She jolted awake to the doctor’s voice.
“How’s Emily?”
“Stable, still asleep. Come, I’ll get you coffee.”
As they sat in the staff room, he said, “Know the Harringtons?”
“Who?”
“Your daughter was with Thomas Harrington—his father’s a businessman. Good lad, though. Carried her from the wreck himself. A bystander drove them—saved time waiting for an ambulance.”
Lydia recalled the scrawny boy with the plaster.
“He goes to her school,” she murmured.
“Parents are always the last to know,” the doctor sighed. “My son’s married now, but back then…”
When they checked on Emily, Lydia froze at the sight of her bandaged head, bruised face.
“Mum,” Emily croaked.
“Thank God you’re alive!” She clasped her daughter’s hand.
“Where’s Thomas?”
“His dad took him home. You never told me you were seeing a Harrington.”
The doctor ushered her out. “She needs rest.”
The following days blurred. Emily recovered. Thomas visited daily, leaving flowers and fruit.
“Love, he’s not for you,” Lydia said once. “Rich boys don’t marry girls like us.”
“We only went out once, Mum. He’s leaving soon—for uni in the States. So…”
“Good. You’ll find someone else.”
Then, a knock. Lydia, in a washed-out dressing gown, opened the door to Edward Harrington. Instantly self-conscious, she clutched the gaping fabric.
“Apologies for dropping in unannounced. May I?”
She stepped aside.
“I found the driver who hit them.”
“Really?” In her relief, she dropped her hands—the gown fell open. Edward averted his gaze.
“He confessed. He’ll pay. How’s Emily?”
“Better. Why hasn’t Thomas visited?”
“He’s with his mother.”
“Because of Emily?”
“No, planned long ago.”
“We’re lucky it was *your* son. If it’d been some nobody, no one would’ve cared,” she said bitterly.
He frowned, left. Lydia instantly regretted her words.
*What’s his crime? Buying his son a bike? Wanting the best for him? Any father would.* She remembered her ex—gone the moment their baby cried too much.
Guilt gnawed at her. Two days later, she visited Edward. Emily had given the address. He answered holding a glass of amber liquid.
“You?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “Come in.”
She hesitated,As she stepped inside, the scent of his cologne mixed with the warmth of the kitchen, and for the first time in years, Lydia felt something she’d thought was lost—hope.
