Vitaly’s Unexpected Journey: A Routine Workday, a Mysterious Phone Call, and the Heart-Wrenching Story of an Unknown Child, a Mother Lost in Childbirth, and a Life Forever Changed at St. Mary’s Maternity Hospital

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 9 minViews 2

Tuesday, 14th May

I had barely settled into my favourite armchair at my desk, laptop open, mug of tea in hand, ready to push through the last of my workload for the day. All I wanted was to tick off a few things before dinner. Then my mobile rang, jolting me out of my rhythman unfamiliar number flashed on the screen.

Hello, speaking, I answered, wary as ever.

Is that William James? Im calling from Westfield Maternity Hospital, said a male voice, his years apparent in the deliberate, measured way he spoke. Are you familiar with an Emma Wilson?

No, sorry, I dont know anyone by that name. Whats this about? I asked, confusion welling up.

Theres been an incident, Im afraid. Emma Wilson passed away yesterday during childbirth. We reached out to her mother, and she told us youre the father of the baby, the man said, his sentence hanging in the air.

Sorry, whose child? What? I think youve got the wrong person, I spluttered, not following.

Emma gave birth to a little girl yesterday. And according to what weve been told, youre her father. That is, if you are William Andrew James. Im afraid well need you to come down to the hospital tomorrow, Mr James. There are things we need to discuss.

What things? I was grasping at straws.

Just come to the Westfield Maternity on Marylebone High Street tomorrow. Ask for Dr Nicholas Peterson. Thats me. Well talk then.

He hung up, leaving the dial tone ringing in my ears. I put the phone down and sat there, dazed, trying to process it all.

Emma? Which Emma? I wandered around my flat in circles, muttering. I didnt remember any Emma Wilson. Wait. Let me think. How long are women pregnant for? Nine months. Its May now, so that would mean September What was I doing last September?

I stared at my now-cold tea, recoiling at the taste. I needed something much stronger for this, but Id given up drinking some years back.

September. Brighton. That was it. Two weeks by the sea. And Emma?

Her face was already a blur in my mindblonde, blue-eyed, I think. How many Emmas had there been exactly? What was I supposed to do, memorise every one? At forty, Id never married, never planned to, and children certainly never figured into my life plans. My world had its routines, its freedoms, and I intended to keep things that way.

But shes dead the realisation thudded inside my skull.

How does someone so young die? How old was she? Twenty, at most. Feeling for another cigarette, I stopped shortId finally quit, hadnt I? A strange feeling unfolded somewhere deep insideguilt? Confusion? Sorrow?

The baby I said aloud as if expecting an answer. Surely the childs grandmother would take her in. Shes family after all. And besides, what if the baby isnt even mine?

By the time I went to bed, Id made up my mind: Id go to the hospital, talk to Dr Peterson, sign whatever documents needed to be signed refusing any involvement, and that would be that. My life would, in theory, go back to how it was.

Despite that decision, sleep was impossible. Thought after thought crashed over me; something restless and heavy writhed in my chest. I couldnt get Emmas laughter out of my mind, her running along the pebbled beach, her eyes fixed on me with pure affection. A silly girl Id forgotten the moment I returned to London. But now she was gone, lying cold in a hospital morgue, and I couldnt shake the image.

At Westfield Maternity the next morning, I paused, heart pounding, in the corridor. I motioned to Dr Peterson for a moment to collect myself and slipped outside, scrounged a cigarette from a passerby, smoked it down in three desperate drags, and strode into the consultants office.

Would you like to see your daughter? Dr Peterson asked.

No. Id like to speak to Emmas mother first. Where is she? I replied, tense.

Shes just there, in the corridorwaited for you just now.

I nodded and spotted a slight woman in black, her head low. Approaching, I forced out, Hello.

She looked up, and I nearly staggered at the pain swirling in her pale eyes. The resemblance to Emma was uncanny; it was like looking at her twin.

Im Vera. Vera Andrews, she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. Emmas mother.

William James, I replied, awkwardly, clinging to the formality.

Emma told me about you, Mr James. She loved you. But now Her voice broke, and tears welled up.

I just stood there, silent, completely at a loss.

Recovering slightly, she begged, Please, dont turn your back on your daughter. I cant bear the thought of my grandchild growing up in a care home. Please

But why a care home? Youre her grandmothertheyll let you look after her, surely? I tried to reassure her. A fleeting thought struck me: Vera looked hardly older than myself.

They wont. Im unwellthe heart, you see. All youd need to do is acknowledge youre the father. Ill raise her. You wont hear anything from us, I promise. Just let her have a chance. Vera reached for my hand.

Come on, I said, leading her toward Dr Petersons office.

What steps do I need to take to confirm Im her father? I asked, nervous.

A DNA test, replied Dr Peterson, eyeing me carefully. Do you have a name in mind?

A name?

Yes, for the baby, he prompted with a kind smile.

Would you like to see her? he asked.

I shook my head, glancing at Vera. Not just now.

The paperwork went through with surprising speed. The test came backthere was no doubt, the child was mine. I didnt know what to do, couldnt imagine life with a child suddenly thrust upon me, yet walking away felt unthinkable.

Ill help where I can, I resolved silently. Ill send money, buy a pram, sort out whatevers needed. Thatll be enough.

After a week, on the day of discharge, I saw a nurse approach with a bundle in blindingly pink wrapsbows and lacy ruffles overkillcarrying something impossibly precious. My mouth went dry.

Vera took the baby, peeled back the lace, and offered a look. Do you want to see your daughter? she asked.

Before I could answer, Dr Peterson suddenly called Vera back to the office for a moment, and without thinking, she handed me the child.

Panic froze me. I couldnt move, couldnt speak. The bundle was warm, sweet-smelling. Then came a soundan odd squeak, then a hungry, pleading cry. I dared to look, and there it wasa perfect miniature of myself staring up with blue eyes. She was unmistakably mine.

The ground seemed to tilt below me. I found a nearby chair and sat, rocking her gently. She stopped crying, her gaze meeting mine, and I swearit sounds madI thought I saw her smile.

Vera returned after a minute.

Here, let me, she reached out.

No, its alright! She smiled at me, I blurted, unable to contain the strange sense of joy creeping over me. Come on, Veralets go home. My voice was quiet, but I suddenly felt certain. Were going home together.As we stepped out into the shifting spring light, Londons bustle churned on indifferent, but nothing looked quite the same. Vera matched my pace, clutching her bag, thin shoulders squared, as if she, too, sensed something momentous beginning. The baby wriggled in my arms, a new weight I had no muscle for but refused to set down.

We paused at the hospital entrance. Whats her name, then? Vera asked softly.

I looked down at the tiny face, the impossible smallness of her clenched fist unfolding against my thumb. I waited for a name to risesomething simple and sure. Emma. I couldnt say it, not after all this. But in that moment, a sudden memory: September storms, the wild hush of the Brighton shore, a gulls arc against the rain.

Marina, I said at last. Her name is Marina.

Vera smiled, a real, fragile smile, the first Id seen. Marina James. It suits her.

We walked, the city swirling around us, but I heard only the soft breaths of the baby, the hush that comes just before a new tide sweeps in. At a red light, I caught my reflectiona middle-aged man, eyes lined with nights awake, but with a curve in his mouth he couldnt hide.

For the first time in years, I felt something shift. Not responsibility, exactly, nor guilt, but something lighterhope, maybe. Or the beginning of it.

I glanced at Vera, who squeezed my arm gratefully, her own grief brightening, just for a heartbeat, to something like peace.

As I held my daughter close, I knew thered be lost sleep, fraught conversations, days where the ache of absence outshone the promise of beginnings. But in that quiet newborn gaze, I recognized an invitation: not to the life Id planned, but to onesurprisingly, impossiblybetter.

Women’s Fates: Marianne After Granny Agnes Passed Away, Marianne Felt Utterly Lost. Her Mother-in-Law Saw Her as a Misfit—Too Thin, Too Feeble, Not Hardworking Enough, and Unlikely to Bear Children. Marianne Endured the Scorn, Finding Solace Only in Her Beloved Granny, Who Had Been Like a Mother and Father in One After Tragedy Struck Her Family. Dan, Strong, Handsome, With a House Full of Plenty, Fell Head Over Heels for This Orphaned Pauper, To His Mother Audrey’s Disgust. No Matter How Hard Marianne Tried—Working Tirelessly, Obeying Every Order—She Could Never Please Her. Things Were Bearable When Dan Was Home, But When He Left for Business, Audrey’s Cruelty Knew No Bounds. “Endure, My Dear,” The Old Granny Had Urged, “In Time, Things Will Soften,” But Now Her Confidante Was Gone, While Dan’s Mother Grew Ever More Hostile, Bitter That Her Son Had Not Chosen the Sturdy, Well-Connected Bride She Preferred. Dan, Inheriting His Father’s Stubbornness, Often Stood Up for His Wife, Fiercely Protective and Deeply in Love, Blinded by Her Gentle Beauty. Marianne Had Heard of Her Mother-in-Law’s Tempers and Greed But Was Soothed by Dan’s Loyalty. She Weathered Every Humiliation, Seeking Comfort at Her Granny’s Knee When She Could Bear No More, The Old Woman’s Fingers Stroking Her Hair and Whispered Prayers Easing Her Heart. But Now There Was No One Left. Marianne Was Utterly Alone. Contrary to What People Say, Time Doesn’t Heal—Instead, The Ache Deepened, Memories Bringing New Tears. In Dan’s House, Tensions Rose: Audrey Called Marianne a Useless Scrounger for Failing to Produce an Heir. The Whole Village Whispered That Dan’s Line Would Die With Him. Still, Dan’s Love Gave Marianne Strength—Until, At Last, Her Prayers Were Answered and She Fell Pregnant. Audrey Turned Even More Vicious, Taunting Her For Resting, For Every Perceived Failure, Even as Marianne Struggled with Exhaustion and Tears. When Her Frail Son, Benjamin, Was Born, Audrey’s Cruel Remarks Cut Deep: She Blamed Mother and Child for Their Weakness, Hardly Believing Marianne’s Protests That This Sickly Boy Was Her Precious Grandson, Dan’s Heir. The Infant’s Struggles Brought Even Greater Despair. Whenever Dan Returned Home, He Tried to Lift Her Spirits—But Soon Work Took Him Far Away. With Dan Gone, Audrey’s Reign Became Unbearable: She Forced Marianne to Labour Day and Night, While The Sick Baby Grew Weaker. At Last, Fearing Audrey’s Poisonous Words Might Be True—That Dan Would Be Better Off Without Her—Marianne Decided She Could Suffer No More. With Nowhere To Go, She Fled, Wrapping Benjamin In Scarves And Setting Out Into The Cold Dark Night. In A Distant Village, A Kindly Woman Named Alice Took Them In And Led Marianne To Her Mother, The Old Healer Grace, Who Lived Deep In The Woods. Grace Explained That Benjamin’s Illness Was The Result Of Grief—Marianne Had Visited Her Grandmother’s Grave Too Often While Pregnant, Picking Up A Clinging Sorrow That Now Threatened Her Son’s Life. Grace Promised Healing, Tending To Benjamin With Ancient Remedies Until He Grew Rosy And Strong. Meanwhile, Back in Dan’s Village, Audrey Spun Tragic Tales: She Claimed The Baby Had Died And That Marianne, Maddened By Grief, Had Vanished. Dan, Returning To An Empty Home, Was Consumed By Grief And Blame. As The Years Passed, He Withdrew Ever Further, Shrouded In Sorrow, While Audrey Wasted Away With Guilt, Dying Without Confessing Her Cruelties. Alone And Lost, Dan Resolved To Join His Family In Death, Wandering Toward The Marshes, Until He Heard Marianne’s Voice Calling Him Back From The Brink. Reunited In The Woods, Dan Discovered His Wife And Son Alive And Well, Healing In A Village Where Kindness Had Replaced Cruelty. Grateful For Second Chances And Determined Never To Return To The House Haunted By Their Sorrows, Marianne, Dan, And Benjamin Began A New Life Together, With Alice And Grace As Their True Family. As The Forgotten Brambles Grew Over Audrey’s Grave, No One Remembered The Woman Whose Jealousy Had Brought Such Misfortune—A Lost Soul, Unmourned And Alone, While Love And Hope Bloomed Anew In The Hearts Of Those She Had Tried To Destroy.

“We’re at the train station, you’ve got half an hour to order a business-class taxi for me and my children!” demanded my sister — “Are you really my sister or just a random stranger? Aren’t you ashamed to act like this, especially in front of the kids? Is it really so hard for you to buy your beloved nephews and nieces some new clothes? Why should I have to beg you to buy things for them? You should offer on your own! You ought to help with money! After all, you couldn’t have children, probably never will! But I’m a single mum!” Angela fired words at Nadya like darts, each one aimed to wound and press deeper into her personal space. Nadya had never been the favourite child. Born out of wedlock, her mother only married later, and from then on Nadya felt like she was in the way. Her stepfather resented her, and her mother took her frustration out on her firstborn for having to marry the first man she could find just to avoid single parenthood. It was only after her little sister was born that Nadya began to breathe easier, as now she had a purpose: the family decided the eldest would serve as nanny to the youngest. Nadya was expected to spend all her time caring for her sister, entertaining and teaching her, regardless of schoolwork, hobbies or friendships. If Nadya didn’t feed or change her sister quickly enough, she’d be grounded or forbidden from seeing friends. As Angela grew older, she began treating Nadya just the way their parents did—as little more than a servant. At eighteen, Nadya decided to change her life. She picked the furthest university from home, packed her bags and left, determined never to return. She barely kept in touch; her parents only called to borrow money they never repaid, always citing Angela’s children. Nadya knew Angela had become a mother at seventeen and married at eighteen, thinking a second child would keep her husband out of army service. She gave birth to twins, but soon after, the young father bolted, demanding a divorce. Now the requests for financial help came frequently. Unlike her sister, Nadya had made a life for herself: she’d earned a degree, landed a good job, and managed to buy her own small flat on a mortgage. Once they knew she was managing, her parents called almost weekly, always for money for Angela’s kids—never repaying, never asking how Nadya herself was coping. She still couldn’t shake the guilt drilled into her since childhood. Saying no to her mother was nearly impossible; every call left her struggling to balance her own finances for the month. Her own love life hadn’t flourished—after finding out she couldn’t have children, Nadya’s husband-to-be had left her. When her family discovered she was childless, it became a recurring source of shame in their conversations: “Nadya’s barren… Tough luck! Thank goodness at least our Angela’s given us grandchildren,” her mother would say. After a while, Angela had the brilliant idea to show up on Nadya’s doorstep, unannounced, one of the few weekends Nadya had to herself: “Nadya, where are you? Am I supposed to take the kids on the bus? Order us a taxi, and make sure it’s not the cheap kind! The little ones get carsick in smoky cabs!” “Hi… Where are you, and why should I get you a taxi?” “Mum didn’t tell you? I’ve decided to move in with you. There’s nothing for me in our hometown. I’m at the station; you have half an hour to send a taxi for us.” Angela hung up before Nadya could protest. That evening Angela began issuing orders: “Tomorrow you’ll get me a job at your office—good pay, easy work, and a team with fit young men, please. I’ll need time off whenever I want. Buy the twins a bunk bed—can’t have us all crammed on the same sofa. I’ll sleep in your bed with the boys tonight, you and Polina can take the sofa. Also, it’s nearly winter, so buy the kids proper warm clothes—none of that bargain rubbish. I don’t want people calling me a divorced mum with baggage!” Nadya listened, incredulous that she’d tolerated such treatment for so long; suddenly, she found her courage: “You can spend tonight here, but tomorrow morning I’ll drive you back to the station—you’re going home to Mum and Dad. I’m not supporting you or your children anymore! You chose to have them—raise them yourself. Consider your debts paid in full! And if you’re not gone by morning, I’ll call the police. I don’t care if the kids are with you—they’re your responsibility! You can all sleep on the guest sofa—I’m not giving up my bed!” Angela sputtered her outrage and rang their mother to complain, but Nadya stood firm. In the morning, she didn’t even drive her sister to the station—just handed her a fare for a taxi and the train. “That’s it. Forget the way to my flat. I have my own life, and it doesn’t revolve around your problems,” Nadya said, shutting the door behind her. Afterward, Nadya wept, thought it through, and realised she’d done the right thing—otherwise, her “wonderful” family would have ruined her. Freed from the burden of never-ending obligation, Nadya felt she could finally breathe. She met a man, married, adopted two children and, at last, found happiness.

The Further Apart We Are, the Closer I Feel… “You know what, my dear grandson! If I’m such a burden, there’s only one option: I won’t go stay with my daughters anymore, nor wander from friend to friend, and I’m not going to look for a ‘companion’ at my age. Honestly! Trying to marry me off in my sixties! “Gran, it’s what I keep telling you! Mum says it too — move into a retirement home. Just transfer the house to my name, they’ll give you a room, Mum will sort it out. You’ll have neighbours your age, someone to talk to, and you won’t be in my way.” “I’m not leaving my home, Sasha. If I bother you, there’s the door in every direction. You’re young and clever, go find a flat and live as you please. Didn’t want to study? Go get a job. Bring a new girlfriend over every day if you want. I’m nearly 65; I need my peace and quiet. “I’ve drifted about long enough — it’s time to come home. It’s not right, being forced out of my own house, while you and your parade of fiancées live off my pension. My pension isn’t endless, you know. You have one week. Find a flat or go stay with your friends, or that, what’s-her-name — forgot again — but I want you out by tonight. Imagine it! Trying to send me to a home, or set me up with a suitor at my age! “The grandson tried to argue, but Lydia turned away, went to her room, and shut the door, head pounding. She’d have taken a pill, but didn’t want to cross paths with her grandson in the kitchen, so she sipped the last of the mineral water from her bedside bottle instead. *** Lydia surprised herself with her resolve. Years of frustration had finally boiled over. She’d put up with it for two years — bouncing from one daughter’s house to the other, always shooed home after a hint that her stay had ‘dragged on.’ “Now her twenty-year-old grandson is playing master in her cottage. One week it’s this girlfriend, next week another, and Gran gets in the way, wheezing on the other side of the wall, ruining the romance. “Gran, go visit someone. Then Dasha, Masha, Chloe, Sarah — whomever I’m dating this week — and I could have the place to ourselves.” And so Lydia would traipse to her cousin’s, or her mate’s, or an old colleague’s — overstaying each welcome until, inevitably, she wore out her hosts. *** When there was nowhere left to go, her eldest daughter had a new baby. Life in London, a mortgage, an older child at school — she needed Gran’s help as much as ever. Lydia moved in, and at first, everyone was delighted: hot meals, a spotless flat, looked-after grandchildren. But within a few months, the son-in-law — just ten years younger than Lydia — began to complain: “Lydia, don’t buy those sausages — they’re dreadful for us. You’re home all day, is it really that hard to make proper food? Cutlets, maybe, or roast chicken…” “Cutlets are good, but you’re spending a fortune on groceries!” “Do I look like some grass-munching herbivore? There’s barely any meat!” On and on, always something not quite right. “You’re at home with the kids, surely you could help the older one with her homework — why pay tutors with a grandmother here?” Even her older granddaughter — only in Fourth Year, mind you — was mortified by Gran’s unfashionable clothes and her insistence on studying. “Gran, why are you even here? You’ve got your own cottage in the country, go back there and be bossy!” Lydia stayed silent, making up for her “shameful” granny ways by giving pocket money, buying meat out of her tiny pension, sometimes topping up her grandson Sasha’s energy bills. Telling her daughter was useless — the girl wouldn’t hear a word against her precious husband, never mind she’d poached him from another family. Whenever the little one was in nursery, they’d gently drop hints — Lydia’s help was no longer needed. The moment she realised it, Lydia left without waiting to be pushed. Coming home, she found Sasha, her eldest daughter’s son, installed — and not alone, but with his girlfriend, her little house a mess, bills unpaid. She had no choice but to cover the costs with a loan and tidy up. But apparently, her presence ruined her grandson’s “personal life” in the two-bedroom cottage. Almost before she could settle, her younger daughter called for help with the new baby, and off Lydia went again. Three months later, sensing she was a nuisance once more, she returned home — but Sasha was still dissatisfied. So she might have endured it all again, had one incident not tipped her over the edge. *** “Sasha, I’m off to Shirley’s for her birthday — I’ll be late, just lock up, I’ll sneak in the back so I don’t disturb you.” “Why not stay overnight? Give us a couple days to ourselves, yeah?” “I’m only just home a week — how could you be fed up with me already?” “Well, a week is long enough. Staying over or not?” “No. I’m coming home.” At Shirley’s, they celebrated — memories, laughter, trying not to mention the problems. Then Shirley got a call — Lydia’s daughter, asking Shirley to keep her mum overnight so the young couple could have the house to themselves. “She even rang last week,” Shirley whispered after the call, “asking me if I knew any older fellas with a spare flat for you to move in with. All so Sasha could have the cottage.” *** Lydia poured her heart out — about living with her eldest daughter and then the youngest, about feeling like an intruder in her own home thanks to her good-for-nothing grandson. “I’m not even mistress in my own house anymore. Sasha left for town after school, but his step-granddad made him feel unwelcome, so he came back, no college, not drafted. Now he’s my permanent houseguest.” Lydia refused to stay that night, went home, and finally told Sasha everything she’d kept bottled up. Sasha complained to his mother, but Lydia stood her ground. Sasha moved out in a huff — “Don’t expect help from me, Gran!” he snapped. Lydia was glad to be alone. For once, she could breathe, after a life spent catering to everyone else. Her daughters begged her to move back in for help with the grandchildren. But Lydia refused. “Bring them to me,” she said. “The air’s healthier here. At last, I’m mistress of my own home.” Now, whenever her daughters and grandchildren visit, she welcomes them gladly — but no more moving or putting her life on hold. Lydia says, the further apart we are, the closer we become. And I think she’s right.

The Fool Everyone Always Thought Anna Was Daft. She’d Been Married Fifteen Years, Had Two Kids — Alice, Fourteen, and Tommy, Seven. Her Husband Cheated on Her from the Second Day of Their Marriage, and Never Bothered to Hide It. Friends Tried to Warn Her, But Anna Always Smiled Silently. Anna Worked as an Accountant at a Toy Factory, With a Tiny Paycheck and Mountains of Work, Even on Weekends. Her Husband Made Good Money, But No Matter What, There Was Never Enough for Groceries, and at Best, Dinner Was Borscht and Meatballs with Pasta. People Always Gossiped About Val With His New Girl. He’d Often Come Home Drunk. “Oh, Anna’s a fool, why does she put up with him?” On Their Son Tommy’s Tenth Birthday, Her Husband Declared He Wanted a Divorce — He’d Fallen in Love and Wasn’t Happy at Home. “Don’t Be Upset, Anna, But I’m Filing for Divorce. You’re so Cold and Not Even a Good Housekeeper,” He Said. “Alright, I Agree,” Anna Replied Calmly, Smiling Oddly, Which Rattled Val. The Next Day, Val Came Home with His New Flame, But Found the Locks Changed and a Mountain of Surprises Awaiting Him. No Key Under the Mat, Just a Burly Man Answering the Door. “Have You Got Any Papers to Prove You Live Here?” Confused, Val Searched for His Passport — Only to Discover He’d Been Removed from the Flat’s Deeds Two Years Prior. Anna and the Kids Had Moved On — His Daughter Studying Abroad, His Son in a Different School, and Anna Gone from the Factory. Crushed, Val Prepared for the Divorce Hearing, Sure He’d Expose Anna as a Swindler. But in Court, He Was Reminded: Two Years Back, Buzzing from a New Affair, He’d Signed Power of Attorney Over to Anna for Household Matters. He’d Lost It All By His Own Hand. His Mistress Eliza Disappeared After Hearing He’d Lost the Flat. Determined to Get Revenge, Val Planned to Refuse Child Support — Only to Receive a Court Summons Contesting His Paternity. DNA Tests Proved Both Children Weren’t His. Anna Had Seen Him Cheat on Their Wedding Day, and Vowed Subtle Revenge — Affair for Affair, Saving Every Penny He Gave Her, Living Frugally so She Could Support the Children Elsewhere, Until She Was Ready to Strike. He Took Losing the Flat Better Than Finding Out Both Kids Weren’t His. Beware the Women You’ve Wronged — In Anger, They Can Do Anything.

The Fairy Godmother Everyone could already tell by Year 7 that Lisa Browning was destined to become a brilliant doctor. It all started when the neighbour’s boy fell off the swings and bloodied his knee and head terribly. The sight would have made most people faint, but twelve-year-old Lisa kept her cool. “Yasmin, fetch some water, bandages and antiseptic!” she commanded her best friend, who lived in the flat opposite the playground. Without a word, Yasmin dashed home. By the time the frightened auntie—little Jamie’s mum, Mrs Turner, had found out and rushed over, Lisa had calmly and efficiently cleaned, treated, and dressed the wounds with the professionalism of someone far beyond her years. When Mrs Turner learned who had given her son first aid, she was astonished. Thanking Lisa warmly, she declared: “You’re going to be a doctor. And not just any doctor—an outstanding one. Well done, you didn’t panic! Some real doctors could learn from you, my dear.” On camping trips, Lisa was simply indispensable. No one wanted to get hurt, of course, but with Lisa Browning there, any scrapes seemed less frightening. Then came medical school, internships, hospital foundation years, and a steady stream of training courses. Once, in her role as a junior doctor, Lisa had to fill in for the Head of Functional Diagnostics. It was safe to say that Dr Elizabeth Alexandra, now Mrs Thompson, was both respected and valued by her colleagues. The team was fantastic—apart from the ageing deputy head, Dr Bernard Stephens, notorious for his grumpiness and temper, and something of an energy vampire to boot. He was in his element when there was trouble to be had. Lisa tried not to rise to his provocations, though only she knew how much effort that took! The only consolation for Dr Thompson was that their paths didn’t often cross—just once a week at the admissions panel when they discussed diagnoses for new patients. Even then, those meetings were anything but pleasant. Dr Stephens would frequently clash with Elizabeth, sometimes making sly, biting comments. He seemed to sense that Dr Thompson tried to ignore his barbs, and it only encouraged him. “Impossible man,” she complained to her husband Val after another trying day. “Honestly, I’ve tried to be patient, but it’s as if Stephens deliberately goads me.” “I’m sure you’ll come out on top,” Val grinned. “You’re the best diplomat I know.” “Absolutely, Mum,” agreed their thirteen-year-old, Max. “If you get bored being a doctor, you should be a diplomat. They earn loads more as well.” “I’ll give it some thought,” she laughed. Lisa was always diplomatic—but at the end of the day, only human. And patience, unfortunately, does have its limits. She sensed that sooner or later, she might just snap, and if she did, it would be for a good reason. The very next day at the usual doctors’ meeting everything was routine—until it was Lisa’s turn to present the notes of a woman in her sixties on the examination couch across from them. Normally, after the report, the patient would leave if she was able, and the head of department, the attending physician, and the deputy would discuss the case in private. This time, however, things got out of hand. “Just tell me one thing,” the older lady asked, her voice trembling. “Is it very serious? Will I recover? I have a granddaughter to raise on my own.” There was so much hope in her anxious eyes, it almost brought tears. Lisa had just begun to speak words of comfort when Dr Stephens bulldozed in. “With a diagnosis like yours?! Frankly, dear lady, your condition is so advanced, no sensible doctor would offer any guarantees! What were you thinking all this time?” The patient froze, lips trembling, but Dr Stephens pressed on: “I know your type! You ignore everything, self-medicate, and only come crawling to a doctor when it’s nearly too late! We’re not miracle workers…” The poor woman burst into tears and left the room. Later, Elizabeth berated herself for not reigning Stephens in, but in truth, she had been stunned. To yell at an elderly patient in such distress was simply unthinkable. The head of department shook her head in disapproval, too. Even if, deep down, the doctors acknowledged Stephens wasn’t technically wrong, there was no excuse for not speaking more kindly—at least with respect for the patient’s age. And that was when Lisa’s patience broke. Enough was enough. “Dr Stephens, with all due respect, what exactly do you think you’re doing?” “What’s the problem?” Stephens shrugged. “We’re not magicians. It’s about time patients knew that. Everything is easier to treat in the early stages, and you know that as well as I do.” Seeing Stephens’ self-satisfied smirk, Lisa grimaced in disgust. The head of department, knowing exactly what he was so pleased about, braced as Lisa took up the challenge. “Yes, Dr Stephens, you’re certainly right that early intervention is better. In most cases, it’s the only real chance! But do you realise how hard I worked to persuade that woman to get treatment? She believed me when I said things could be alright. And now—you’ve shattered all of that in a single moment. Well done.” Lisa threw up her hands in frustration. Stephens, recovering from her outburst, tried to assert his authority with the head of department, but soon realised it was no use. He had long ago discovered Mrs Thompson was no pushover—she knew her worth, and it was high. He blustered some more, but Lisa was barely listening. She watched, as if through a veil, as the department head left the office. With only Stephens for company, Elizabeth felt suffocated. Lisa gazed blankly at a corner, silent. How could she be expected to get on with her work after this? She felt like crying, but thought, “No way am I giving him that satisfaction.” She moved to the window, and heard the door slam. Lisa turned to see she was alone. She sat down at her desk and reached for her files. Duty still called. “Dr Thompson?” came a hesitant voice. She barely registered who it was, so unlike Stephens’ usual tone of command. The deputy held a bottle of valerian drops, his face creased in confusion. Strangely, Lisa felt no triumph—only pity. Rumour had it that Stephens was a lonely man. “Dr Thompson, here,” he muttered, handing her the vial. “And… forgive me. Maybe you’re right….” “And you, Dr Stephens,” she replied, choosing kindness, “have your own point. But our job is to heal people—and to give them at least a glimmer of hope. Sometimes, that hope creates miracles. I’m sure you know that as well as I do.” “Yes, yes, of course,” Stephens nodded absently. Such a transformation was something remarkable, but Lisa didn’t dwell on it. Better to strike while the iron was hot. “Dr Stephens,” she said, taking a steadying breath, “please remember: I’ll never allow anyone—no matter their position—to raise their voice or question my qualifications in front of a patient, whether they’re a porter or the Health Secretary himself.” “Absolutely, Dr Thompson. Understood.” “Let’s hope so,” thought Lisa, looking at the time. There was still so much to do. An hour later, she visited the patient—Veronica Grace, who had a bouquet of tulips on her bedside table. Seeing Lisa, the older woman smiled. “You’ll never guess who just visited me,” she said. “Your boss! Brought me flowers and apologised. Said, ‘We’ll do everything we possibly can to help you recover.’” “That’s wonderful,” Lisa replied, squeezing Veronica’s hand. “We really will do everything. You’re as good as new—practically a young bride-to-be!” “You joker!” laughed the patient. A month on, Veronica was on the mend. On the day she was discharged, Dr Stephens brought her a box of posh chocolates. “For your granddaughter,” he said, a little awkwardly. “And these are for you,” holding out a bouquet of roses. “Such beautiful flowers! Thank you so much. I can’t remember the last time someone gave me flowers. And my thanks to all of you—doctors, really, you’ve given an old lady her life back.” History was made: “Did Stephens just do that?” thought everyone present, marvelling. The widely disliked deputy, famous for never speaking a kind word, had done the unthinkable. Relations between Lisa and Bernard improved, if not to friendship, then to very cordial understanding. They often shared a coffee after meetings, or sometimes ran into each other in the hospital café. “There’s no such thing as happiness,” Stephens confided once. “Maybe that’s why I’m so cantankerous. Life’s gone by, and I haven’t really lived it.” “What do you mean?” Lisa exclaimed. “You’re senior deputy, that’s no small achievement.” “I suppose so,” he conceded. “But I wish I was happy. I was, once. But it slipped away.” So, Lisa realised, the man had simply been defeated by loneliness. She found herself growing fond of him. Lisa’s new friendship did not go unnoticed by the staff, though nobody stooped to idle gossip—Dr Thompson was above that, and Stephens was hardly a ladies’ man. “What’s your secret?” nurse Abby asked in the middle of a girls’ tea party. “He’s different now—actually smiles. Not often, but it’s something!” Every Friday, all the female staff, from doctors to cleaners, held a tea party in the hospital kitchen, bringing their best cakes and jam. “Honestly, girls, there’s no secret,” Lisa said. “It’s simple really.” “As if!” scoffed Valerie the cloakroom lady. “It’s true! Everything depends on self-confidence and dignity. Anyone—be they doctor or cleaner—deserves both.” “I wish I could,” sighed young orderlie Sarah. “He scares me!” “You shouldn’t think like that,” Lisa replied. “Everyone has the right to self-respect. It’s all about confidence.” Psychiatrist Gillian nodded. “Especially with energy vampires. If they sense confidence, they steer clear—there’s nothing to feed off.” “Maybe Stephens is just an unhappy man,” mused Vera the cook. Everyone agreed—except Lisa, who knew it for a fact. “Did I miss much, girls?” panted Katie the linen lady, bustling in. “Not really—we’re just gossiping about old Bernie,” Gillian grinned. “Oh, then you’re all up to date!” Katie declared. “About what?” everyone clamoured. “Stephens is getting married!” “No way!” “Now that’s a shock!” “More likely the world’s about to freeze over than that!” Hospital staff were agog. “Lisa, don’t tell me you didn’t know,” said the housekeeper slyly. “No, I had no idea!” Lisa replied, surprised. “We talked about a lot, but not hearts and flowers.” “People like him would never let on!” pronounced psychologist Tamara sagely. “Too right,” Lisa thought. “I wonder who the lucky lady is…” “So who is he marrying?” Sarah piped up. “Not sure—apparently it’s a patient,” Katie said as she poured her tea. “Seriously?” Vera exclaimed, while Lisa smiled—she had an inkling. “Well, girls, I think this news deserves something stronger than tea,” Lisa said. “A bottle or two of wine, perhaps?” Cheers! For all they knew, becoming a newlywed might just soften Stephens up a bit. The next day at coffee, Stephens looked the picture of happiness. Lisa didn’t let on that she’d heard—it was obvious he wanted to announce it himself. “You’re looking well, Bernard,” she smiled. “You noticed,” he grinned. “And I’m in a fantastic mood—I’m getting married, Lisa!” “Really?” Lisa feigned surprise. “And who’s the lucky lady?” “Oh, she’s marvellous. The very best in the world for me.” “So—will you tell me who?” “It’s Veronica. You know, the lady you gave me a proper talking-to about. I really liked her, so I decided to act. Got her details from her records, went to see her—ostensibly as follow-up care.” “Well, well, a secret schemer after all,” Lisa laughed. “She’s a wonderful choice.” “I think so, too. And I want you at our wedding. You and your family. Because it’s thanks to you that I found my soulmate. Lisa, you really should have been a diplomat!” “Oh, don’t be silly! Fate would have brought you together regardless.” The wedding was lovely. The groom looked dashing, and the bride radiant—transformed from the anxious patient desperate for her granddaughter’s sake into a stylish, confident woman ten years younger. Veronica’s bob haircut and dark chestnut hair suited her perfectly, and she never tired of thanking Lisa…