“There’s nothing more frightening in the world…”
“Right then, everything’s fine with Oliver. I’m signing him off for nursery.” The doctor handed Emily the certificate. “No more illnesses, alright, Oliver?”
The little boy nodded and looked up at his mum.
“Let’s go.” Emily took her son’s hand, then turned back at the door. “Goodbye.”
“Bye,” Oliver echoed behind her.
In the corridor, Emily sat him on a chair and went to the cloakroom to fetch their coats. Oliver swung his legs excitedly, eyeing the other children with curiosity. Once dressed, Emily tucked his scarf snugly around his neck.
“Nursery tomorrow. Missed it?” she asked.
“Course!” Oliver chimed happily.
They stepped out of the children’s clinic into the crisp winter air, heading for the bus stop.
“Mum! Mum…” Oliver tugged at Emily’s arm, snapping her out of her thoughts.
“What is it?” She blinked, pulling herself back from wondering how tomorrow, at last, she’d return to work and life would settle back into its rhythm.
She followed his gaze and saw a woman pushing an open pram. Inside sat a boy Oliver’s age, mouth slack, a thin trail of saliva dripping, his eyes blank and unfocused.
Emily quickly looked away.
“Mum, why’s that boy in a pram? He’s big,” Oliver whispered.
“He’s poorly,” she replied.
“But you didn’t push me in a pram when I was ill?”
“Come on, let’s hurry. He’s poorly in a different way.” Emily glanced back at the woman disappearing down the street and tugged Oliver toward the bus stop.
Ever since Oliver was born, she couldn’t bear the sight of sick children—her heart twisted with pity, imagining herself in their mothers’ shoes. Most of those women cared for their disabled children alone. Husbands usually couldn’t handle it and left. Lucky if family stayed close.
Could she have done it? Taken on that unbearable weight? Or would she have left her child at the hospital? Her Oliver? Never. Even the thought made her shudder.
As the bus carried them home, Emily let her mind drift back…
***
She’d always been pretty and cheerful, dating here and there but never rushing into marriage, let alone children. Yet time passed, her friends all married—some more than once—and their kids were already in school. Family and acquaintances would ask, “Not married yet?” and raise eyebrows when she said no.
Eventually, she wanted it too—a family, children. She felt ready to cook and clean for a loving husband, to fuss over a baby, to stroll with a pram among other mums. But the men she liked were either taken or, burned by past divorces, hesitant to commit. The ones who liked her? Not her type. Always a mismatch.
Then she met him. He wasn’t the man she’d dreamed of—not her usual type—but her friends and mum insisted: “It’s time. If not now, you’ll never marry. Your clock’s ticking.” She wasn’t being picky. Life just hadn’t lined up.
Her future husband spoke of love, children, plans, and proposed beautifully. So Emily said yes. After a lavish wedding, she fell pregnant almost straight away. Why wait? Thirty-three was late enough.
She glowed as she walked, eyeing baby clothes in shops, tracing tiny booties and dresses with her fingers. Her hand often rested on her belly, shielding the life inside. She already loved her—her little girl. For some reason, she desperately wanted a daughter.
Morning sickness faded, but nightmares took its place: dreams of losing her child in crowds or finding an empty pram. Gone. She’d wake gasping, clutching her stomach, frantic until she felt the reassuring swell beneath her palm. She dreaded sleep, waking often in panic.
“Perfectly normal. Pregnancy anxieties,” the midwife soothed at her check-up.
Then one day, the baby stopped moving. She waited all evening, all night. By morning, she rushed to the hospital. They sent her for a scan.
“Why won’t you say anything?” Emily near-sobbed at the sonographer’s tense silence. “What’s wrong?”
“Calm down, Mum. There’s a heartbeat—listen.” A button clicked, and the rapid thump-thump filled the room. “Just sleeping soundly. Can’t seem to wake him.”
“Him? A boy?” Emily startled.
“Yes. Didn’t you know?”
When a faint kick finally came, she exhaled.
“Alive! He’s awake!” she laughed softly.
As her due date neared, fear swelled. She waddled heavily, her back screaming.
“A big baby. A little bruiser,” the doctors reassured.
“Can I deliver naturally?” Emily fretted.
“Where else would he go?” The midwife chuckled at her next appointment.
“But I’m an ‘older mum’ for first-time births, aren’t I?”
“Women have babies at forty, older even. You’ll manage.”
“Could I have a C-section?” she ventured.
“Why? No medical need. You’ll be fine.”
“But the dreams… I sound mad, but I’ve got this awful feeling—”
“Stop overthinking. Everyone’s scared. It’ll be fine,” the midwife cut in.
Still, Emily pressed until finally:
“Fine. Where are you birthing?”
“I can choose the hospital but not how I deliver?” Irritation flared. She knew she sounded hysterical but couldn’t stop.
“You’re under St. Mary’s. Talk to the head midwife there. And relax—stress harms the baby.”
Temporarily soothed, Emily went the next day. The waiting room was full of pregnant women with partners or mums. Uneasy, she called her husband to join her.
The head midwife, stern and unsmiling, listened to Emily’s fears, scanned her notes.
“No grounds for surgery. A forty-two-year-old delivered naturally here yesterday. You’re young, healthy, and strong. You’ll cope.”
“I’ll pay. However much it costs,” Emily insisted.
“Don’t be absurd,” the woman snapped. “Surgery risks harming the baby. Complications—” She launched into a lecture.
“And natural births don’t have risks?”
“Clearly I’m wasting my breath.” The midwife sighed. “Fine. Come in three days early. We’ll induce…”
“What if I go into labour and you’re not here?”
“They’ll call me. I’ll come.”
“What if you’re at the theatre? Or away? What if it’s too late?” Emily’s voice cracked. “I can’t lose him. These dreams—why won’t anyone listen?”
“You’re catastrophising. I’ll be there.”
But Emily didn’t believe her. Maybe it was her indifferent tone, her cold stare.
“You see this every day. But this might be my only child. I need to know he’s safe.” Snatching her notes, she stood. “Sorry. I don’t trust you.”
“Well, really!” the midwife spat as Emily left. “Why bother coming?”
*Why indeed?* Shaken, Emily trembled all the way home. Was she imagining it all? Other women feared birth too, yet their babies were fine. Just pregnancy madness. But then… where did sick children come from?
For two days, she tried to calm herself, chanting *it’ll be fine*. But her gut screamed otherwise. She dug out an old colleague’s number—Kate, whose ex-husband was an obstetrician. *Please let her still have this number. Please let him be in town.*
“Kate? It’s Emily—we worked together years ago?”
“Em! Blimey, what’s up?”
“I’m due soon…” Emily spilled her fears.
“Wait—you want my ex to deliver? He’s brilliant. Divorced, but still.”
Emily’s hope plummeted.
“Don’t panic,” Kate said. “I’ll call him, get his number.”
He answered on the first ring. No questions, just an appointment.
Exhausted from worry, Emily took a cab across London.
The doctor towered, masked, but his eyes were kind. No lectures, just a scheduled C-section. His calm soothed her. *This time, it’ll be okay.*
At home, she packed baby clothes, her own nightie. Two days later, her husband drove her in.
“Mum, how was your labour with me?” Emily asked over the phone.
“Two days of agony, love. Why?”
“Just curious. I’ll call after.”
*I’m doing the right thing,* she told herself.
The doctor scanned her one last time.
“Ah. Cord’s wrapped around…” The rest blurred as fear surged.
Morning came. In theatre, she caught snippets of the surgeons’ murmurs.
“Blimey—triple nuchal… Good call… Boy…”
Then a cry.
“Your little bruiser!” The doctor lifted a squalling, red-faced bundle.
***
NowAs the bus pulled up to their stop, Emily squeezed Oliver’s hand tightly, grateful beyond words that he was here, healthy and whole, beside her.
