There is nothing more terrifying in this world…
“Right, everything’s fine with Oliver. I’m clearing him for nursery.” The doctor handed Eleanor the slip. “No more falling ill, Oliver.”
The boy nodded and looked up at his mother.
“Let’s go.” Eleanor took her son’s hand, glancing back at the door. “Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” Oliver echoed.
In the corridor, Eleanor sat him on a chair and went to fetch their coats from the cloakroom. Oliver swung his legs cheerfully, studying the other children with curiosity. Once dressed, Eleanor carefully tied his scarf.
“Nursery tomorrow. Have you missed it?” she asked.
“Course I have!” Oliver beamed.
They stepped out of the paediatric clinic into the snow-laden street, heading for the bus stop.
“Mum! Mum, look—” Oliver tugged at Eleanor’s hand, pulling her from her thoughts about returning to work tomorrow, about life finally settling back into place.
“What?” She followed his gaze and saw a woman wheeling an open pushchair. Inside sat a boy Oliver’s age, slack-jawed, eyes vacant, a thin drool slipping down his chin.
Eleanor quickly looked away.
“Mum, why’s that boy in a pushchair? He’s big.”
“He’s ill.”
“But you never pushed me when I was ill?”
“Come on. It’s different.” She glanced back at the retreating figure, then pulled Oliver towards the bus stop.
Ever since Oliver was born, the sight of sick children hollowed her out. She pitied the mothers—left to shoulder the burden alone, husbands often fleeing the weight of it. Could she have done it? Could she have carried that impossible load? Or would she have left her child behind? Her Oliver? Never. Merely thinking it made her shudder.
On the bus, Eleanor remembered…
***
She’d been bright, carefree—dating but never rushing into marriage, certainly not thinking of children. But time slipped by. Friends married, some more than once, their children already in school. Relatives would ask when she planned to settle down, eyebrows lifting when she shrugged.
Eventually, she longed for it—family, a child. She imagined cooking for a husband, cooing over a baby, pushing a pram alongside other mums. But the men she liked were married or burned by past failures, while those who liked her left her cold. The age-old mismatch.
Then she met him. He wasn’t what she’d imagined—too serious, not her type. But her mother and friends insisted: *It’s now or never. The clock’s ticking. Stop being so picky.* As if she were choosing when nothing ever aligned.
He spoke of love, of children, of futures—proposed grandly. And she said yes. After the lavish wedding, she fell pregnant almost at once. Why wait? Thirty-three was late enough.
She walked the streets smiling, lingering in baby aisles, fingering tiny socks and dresses. Unconsciously, she’d cradle her belly, guarding the life inside. She loved it already—her *daughter*, she was sure.
Morning sickness faded, but nightmares took its place. Dreams of losing the child in crowds, finding an empty pram. She’d wake gasping, gripping her swollen belly, desperate to feel movement.
“Normal fears,” the midwife assured. “Perfectly natural.”
Then, one evening, the baby stopped kicking. She waited, anxious through the night, and by dawn, she was at the hospital.
“Why won’t you say anything?” she begged the ultrasound technician, voice cracking at her tense silence.
“Relax, Mum. Heartbeat’s fine. Listen.” A rapid thumping filled the room. “Just a deep sleeper. Can’t wake the little lad.”
“Lad? A boy?”
“You didn’t know?”
When the faintest kick came, she exhaled in relief.
“He’s alive! He’s woken!”
As the weeks passed, dread grew. Her back ached under the weight.
“Big baby. A bruiser,” the midwives chuckled.
“Can I deliver him?”
“Course you can,” one grinned.
“But I’m ‘advanced maternal age’, aren’t I?”
“Women have babies at forty-two these days. You’ll manage.”
“Could I have a C-section?”
The midwife frowned. “Why? You’re healthy. No need.”
“But my dreams—what if something goes wrong?”
“Stop borrowing trouble.”
Desperate, she sought a private consultant—a towering figure who listened without condescension, who scheduled the operation without argument. Relief washed over her.
On the table, she caught fragments of hushed voices:
“—triple nuchal cord—just in time—boy—”
Then—a wail.
“Your little bruiser!” The doctor held up a squalling, red-faced bundle.
***
Now that same perfect boy chattered beside her on the bus.
Eleanor nodded absently, half-listening.
“You’ll buy me that toy car now?”
“Yes,” she murmured.
The boy in the pushchair haunted her. Pity gnawed—for him, for his mother, bound to a life of silent sorrow, never hearing his chatter, never seeing him run.
They’d called her paranoid. Hysterical. But she’d fought for Oliver. For his life, his health.
Once, she thought happiness was comfort, money, love. None of it mattered. True happiness was a child’s warm hand in yours, his voice, his smile.
Doctors saved lives. But they didn’t always hear a mother’s fear. They should. Women carried ancient instinct—the raw will to bring life safely into the world.
