“There’s nothing scarier in the world…”
“Right, everything’s fine with Oliver. I’m clearing him for nursery.” The doctor handed Emily the certificate. “Don’t get poorly again, Oliver.”
The boy nodded and looked up at his mum.
“Come on then.” Emily took her son’s hand and glanced back at the door. “Goodbye.”
“Bye,” Oliver echoed behind her.
In the corridor, Emily sat Oliver on a chair and went to fetch their coats. Oliver swung his legs excitedly, eyeing the other kids with curiosity. Once dressed, Emily wrapped his scarf snugly around his neck.
“Nursery tomorrow. Missed it?” she asked.
“Course,” Oliver chirped.
They stepped out of the children’s clinic into the snowy street, heading for the bus stop.
“Mum! Mu-um!” Oliver tugged at Emily’s hand, snapping her out of her thoughts.
“What?” She blinked, pulling herself away from the relief that tomorrow she’d finally return to work, that life would settle back into its usual rhythm.
She followed Oliver’s gaze to a woman pushing an open pram. Inside sat a boy Oliver’s age, mouth slack, drool trailing down his chin, eyes blank and unfocused.
Emily looked away quickly.
“Mum, why’s that boy in a pram? He’s big,” Oliver whispered.
“He’s poorly,” she said.
“But you didn’t push me in a pram when I was poorly?”
“Come on, love. He’s poorly in a different way.” Emily glanced at the retreating woman and tugged Oliver toward the bus stop.
Ever since Oliver was born, she couldn’t bear the sight of sick children—always imagining herself in those shoes. Pity clutched her heart. She’d watch those mothers with sympathy, knowing most cared for their children alone, husbands often unable to cope. Lucky if family helped.
Could she do it? Shoulder that impossible weight? Or would she have left the child at the hospital? Her Oliver? Never. The mere thought was unbearable.
On the bus home, Emily found herself lost in memories…
***
She’d been pretty, cheerful. Dated, but never hurried into marriage, let alone children. Time passed. Friends married—some more than once—their kids already in school. Relatives asked after her love life, eyebrows lifting at her answers.
Eventually, she wanted it too—a family, a child. Imagined cooking for a husband, pushing a pram alongside other mums. But the men she liked were taken or burned by past marriages. The ones who liked her? Not her type. The eternal mismatch.
Then she met him. Not her usual “type,” but her friends and mum insisted: “It’s time. If not now, when?” She wasn’t picky—life just hadn’t aligned.
He spoke of love, children, future plans. Proposed grandly. She said yes. After the lavish wedding, she was pregnant almost immediately. Why wait? Thirty-three wasn’t young.
She’d stroll with a smile, eyeing baby clothes, touching her belly protectively. Already in love—with her daughter. She’d wanted a girl so badly.
The nausea faded, but nightmares took its place. Losing the child in crowds, finding empty prams. Waking to no bump, no baby—but he’d been there, hadn’t he? Heart racing, she’d clutch her swollen belly, struggling to calm down.
“Normal worries,” the midwife assured her.
Then, one evening, the baby stopped moving. She waited all night, then rushed to hospital for a scan.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” she pleaded, watching the doctor’s tense stare at the screen. “What’s wrong?”
“Calm down, Mum. Heartbeat’s fine. Listen.” A button click, and the rapid thump of her baby’s heart filled the room. “Just sleepy. Can’t seem to wake him.”
“Him? It’s a boy?”
“You didn’t know?”
When she finally felt a faint kick, she exhaled.
“Alive! He’s awake!” she laughed weakly.
As the due date neared, fear grew. Her back ached, her belly ungainly.
“Big baby. A little warrior,” the doctors said.
“Can I even deliver him?” she fretted.
“Where else would he go?” The midwife chuckled.
“But I’m ‘older.’ Isn’t that risky?”
“Women older than you manage. Relax.”
“Can I have a C-section?”
“Why? No medical need. You’ll manage.”
“But the dreams—I’m not just scared, I’ve got this awful feeling—”
“Stop overthinking. Everyone’s scared. It’ll be fine.”
“Still…”
“Fine. Where are you delivering?”
“I can choose? Then why not how I deliver?” Irritation flared. She knew she sounded hysterical but couldn’t stop.
“You’re assigned to St. Mary’s. Speak to the head midwife. And calm down—stress isn’t good for the baby.”
Temporarily placated, Emily went the next day. The waiting room was full of pregnant women with partners. Uncomfortable, she called her husband.
The head midwife was stern, unsmiling. Listened, checked her notes.
“No grounds for surgery. A forty-two-year-old delivered naturally here yesterday. You’re young and healthy. You’ll manage.”
“I’ll pay. However much it costs.”
“Don’t be absurd. Surgery harms the baby. Risks…” The midwife launched into warnings.
“And natural births don’t have risks? I’ve heard—”
“Fine. Come three days early. We’ll induce.”
“What if I go into labour when you’re not here?”
“They’ll call me.”
“What if you’re at the theatre? Or your cottage? What if it’s too late? I can’t lose him. The dreams—” Tears welled. Why wouldn’t anyone listen?
“You’re catastrophising. I’ll be there.”
Emily didn’t believe her. The disinterested stare said it all.
“You see this daily. But this might be my only child. I need to know he’s safe.” She stood, taking her notes. “Sorry. I don’t trust you.”
“Well! Why come at all?” the midwife snapped.
*Why indeed?* Shaken, Emily wondered if she was overreacting. Other women feared birth too—yet survived. But then, where did sick children come from?
For two days, she recited mantras: *It’ll be fine.* But her gut said otherwise. Desperate, she called an old colleague whose ex-husband was an OB-GYN.
“Lena! What a surprise! You’re *pregnant*?”
“A boy. Listen, about your ex—”
“Want him to deliver? Brilliant doctor. Shame we divorced.”
Emily’s hope crumbled.
“Don’t fret. I’ll call him.”
Next morning, she had his number.
He didn’t lecture. Just scheduled her C-section. Confidence radiated from him—no impatience, no judgment. For the first time, Emily relaxed.
At home, she packed baby clothes, her own necessities. Two days later, her husband drove her to the hospital. She called her mum.
“Mum, how was my birth?”
“Long, love. Two days. Why?”
“Just checking. I’ll call after.”
*I’m doing the right thing.* The doctor’s calm assured her. A scan revealed the truth:
“Triple nuchal cord…”
Next morning, in the operating theatre, she listened to murmured snippets.
“*Wow, triple loop… Just in time… Boy…*”
Then—a cry. Tears spilled.
“Your little champion!” The doctor lifted a red, squalling bundle.
***
Now that champion babbled beside her on the bus, relentless.
Emily smiled, nodding absently.
“Buy me a toy car now?” Oliver asked.
“Sure.”
She thought of the boy in the pram. Felt for him, his mother bearing that weight.
Once, she’d thought happiness was money, career, a loving husband. None of it mattered. True happiness was this: her child, alive and healthy, clutching her hand, chattering nonsense with a grin.
Doctors saved lives. But they didn’t always listen to a mother’s fear. A shame. Women carried ancient intuition—the will to bring life safely into the world.
