**Diary Entry**
—
There’s nothing more dreadful in this world…
“Everything seems fine with Oliver. He’s cleared to go back to nursery.” The doctor handed Emily the note. “Try not to get sick again, love.”
The little boy nodded and glanced up at his mum.
“Let’s go.” Emily took his hand, pausing at the door. “Goodbye.”
“Bye-bye,” Oliver echoed behind her.
In the corridor, Emily sat him on a chair while she fetched their coats from the cloakroom. Oliver swung his legs excitedly, watching the other children with curiosity. Once bundled up, she wrapped his scarf snugly around his neck.
“Nursery tomorrow. Missed it?” she asked.
“Course I have,” he chirped.
They stepped out of the children’s clinic into the snowy street, heading for the bus stop.
“Mum! Mum…” Oliver tugged at Emily’s hand, snapping her from her thoughts.
“What?” She blinked, pulled back from imagining tomorrow—back to work, life finally resuming its rhythm.
She followed his gaze to a woman pushing an open pram. Inside sat a boy Oliver’s age, slack-jawed, drool trailing down his chin, eyes vacant.
Emily looked away quickly.
“Mum, why’s that boy in a pram? He’s big,” Oliver whispered.
“He’s poorly,” she murmured.
“But you never put me in a pram when I was poorly?”
“Let’s hurry. He’s poorly in a different way.” She glanced back at the retreating woman, then pulled Oliver toward the bus stop.
Since Oliver’s birth, sick children twisted something in her chest—pitiless, unwanted sympathy. Those mothers, left alone to care for them. Husbands so often couldn’t bear it and left. Lucky if family stayed close.
Could she have done it? Carried that weight? Or would she have left her child at the hospital? Her Oliver? Never. Even the thought was unbearable.
On the bus ride home, Emily remembered…
—
She’d been cheerful, pretty—dated, but never rushed into marriage, let alone children. Yet time passed. Friends married, some more than once, their children already in school. Relatives would ask, eyebrows raised, if she’d settled down yet. Eventually, she wanted it too—a family, a child. Ready to cook, clean, push a pram alongside other mums.
But the men she liked were married or bruised by past failures. Those who liked her? She didn’t like back. The usual mismatch.
Then she met *him*. Not her usual type, but friends and Mum insisted: *Now or never. Time’s ticking. Stop being choosy.* But she wasn’t. It just never worked.
He spoke of love, children, futures. A flashy proposal. She said yes. A lavish wedding, then pregnancy almost straight after—why wait? Thirty-three already.
She’d smiled in the street, lingered in baby aisles, touched tiny shoes, dresses. A hand always on her bump, shielding the life inside. She already loved her—*why did she want a girl so badly?*
Morning sickness faded, but nightmares took its place. Losing the child in crowds, finding an empty pram. Waking to a flat stomach, no baby—*but there had been one…*
Heart pounding, she’d clutch her belly, struggling to calm down. Fear kept her awake.
“Normal,” the midwife said. “Pregnancy jitters.”
Then one day—no movement. She waited all night, praying, before rushing to hospital. The ultrasound technician frowned at the screen.
“Why won’t you *speak?*” Emily nearly cried. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t panic, love. Heartbeat’s strong. Listen.” A rapid *thump-thump-thump* filled the room. “Just sound asleep. Can’t wake the little chap.”
“*Chap?* A boy?”
“You didn’t know?”
When a faint kick finally came, she exhaled.
“He’s alive! Woken up!”
Nearer the due date, fear grew. Her back ached under the weight.
“Big baby,” they said. “A bruiser.”
“Can I deliver him?”
“You’ll manage,” the midwife chuckled.
“But I’m ‘geriatric,’ aren’t I?”
“Women deliver at forty, older. You’re fine.”
“…What about a C-section?”
“Why? No medical need. You’ll cope.”
“But the dreams—I *feel* something’s wrong—”
“Stop overthinking. All mums worry.”
She begged, argued—finally, the consultant sighed.
“Fine. Come in three days early. We’ll induce—”
“What if I go into labour before? What if you’re not here?”
“They’ll call me.”
“What if you’re at the theatre? On holiday?”
“I’ll *come.*”
Emily didn’t believe her. Something in the woman’s indifferent stare.
“This is routine for you. But this might be my only child. I need to *know* he’ll be safe.” She stood, took her notes. “I’m sorry. I don’t trust you.”
“Then why even *come?*” the woman snapped.
*Why indeed?* Shaken, Emily wondered if she *was* mad. Others feared too—still delivered fine. But where did sick children come from?
Two days of mantras: *It’ll be fine.* Yet dread clung.
She rang an old colleague whose ex-husband was an OB-GYN. A miracle—he answered, invited her in.
He was tall, calm. No lectures, no judgment. Just a date to admit her. For the first time, she breathed easy.
At the hospital, he scanned her.
“Hmm. Cord’s wrapped—”
Her pulse spiked. She heard fragments the next morning in theatre:
“…Triple nuchal… Lucky timing… Boy…”
A wail. Tears flooded her.
“Your little warrior,” the surgeon said, lifting a red, squalling bundle.
—
Now that same boy chattered beside her on the bus.
“So you’ll buy me that toy car *now?*”
“Yes,” she smiled.
The boy in the pram haunted her. That mother’s burden—no first words, no school runs, no pride.
Let them call her hysterical, paranoid. She’d done *everything* to keep Oliver safe.
She used to think happiness was money, career, a loving husband. None of it mattered. True happiness was a living, healthy child—his hand in hers, babbling, grinning.
Doctors save lives. But they don’t always listen to a mother’s fear. They should. Centuries of instinct live in women—to give life, to *protect* it.
