Emma woke up in pain. Just before opening her eyes, she’d dreamed of something important, but the sharp ache in her abdomen pushed the memory away. She had never felt a pain like this—radiating even into her lower back.
Lying still, she waited for it to ease. When it dulled slightly, she cautiously sat up, but the moment she tried to stand, the pain sliced through her again. A gasp escaped her lips as she slid to the floor, crawling on her knees to the dresser where she’d left her phone charging.
On all fours, she dialled emergency services, one hand bracing against the floor. “Calm down,” she whispered to herself. “The ambulance will come soon.” Then a thought struck her—the door. She had to unlock it. Still on her knees, she dragged herself to the hallway. The pain pulsed like fire.
She tried to straighten up to reach the latch, but the movement sent a fresh wave of agony through her. Tears welled in her eyes. This—this was the true terror of living alone. Not the absence of someone to hand her a glass of water, but the absence of someone to open the door when she needed saving. Biting her lip until it bled, she forced herself upright and managed to turn the lock before collapsing, unconscious.
Voices floated through the haze in her mind—questions, fragments of conversation. She might have answered, or maybe she only imagined it.
When she woke again, the low autumn sun glared through the hospital window. Emma flinched and turned away, wincing at the dull ache beneath her ribs. Her stomach felt swollen, but the pain had nearly vanished.
Not long ago, during yet another attempt to break things off with James, she’d thought death would be easier than this lonely life. No husband, no children, no one at all. What was the point? But last night, she had fought to stay alive, terrified of dying so suddenly, so alone.
“You’re awake? I’ll fetch the nurse.”
Emma turned toward the voice. In the next bed sat a plump woman of indeterminate age in a flannel dressing gown patterned with yellow flowers on a blue background.
Soon, a nurse entered the room.
“How are you feeling?” she asked Emma.
Young, rosy-cheeked—or maybe it was the effect of her pink medical cap.
“Fine,” Emma replied. “What happened?”
“The doctor will explain everything,” the nurse said before heading for the door.
Emma caught sight of a thick, waist-length blonde braid. Did women still wear their hair like that?
“You’re in the gynaecology ward. They brought you here a couple of hours ago. You’ve been sleeping like a log, love,” the roommate remarked.
*Love.* Lately, people had started calling her “madam” or “miss” in shops and on the bus. It made her feel ancient. Forty-two wasn’t old—was it? Maybe that was why, whenever friends tried to set her up, she brushed them off, insisting her time had passed. Why she kept trying to leave James, only for him to come back.
“How are you feeling?” A doctor in his fifties walked in.
“Doctor, what happened? Did I have surgery? I feel like I swallowed a balloon.”
“Mrs. Taylor, they’re waiting for you in the dressing room,” the doctor said to the roommate.
With a sigh, the woman straightened her gown and shuffled out.
Grateful for the privacy, Emma met the doctor’s tired eyes.
“You had a laparotomy. An ectopic pregnancy—your tube ruptured.”
“What?” Emma nearly bolted upright, but the sting in her abdomen forced her still.
“Why the shock?” the doctor asked.
“They told me I was infertile.”
“That doesn’t rule out an ectopic pregnancy—or even a natural one, for that matter. Life’s full of surprises. Trust me. You’ll stay with us a few more days.”
“Can I get up?”
“You should. But don’t overdo it.”
Emma digested his words. *Infertile.* That diagnosis had ended her marriage—though his infidelity had already begun. “Could I really get pregnant now?” she wondered. Then she scoffed. *Forty-two. Too late.* Why hadn’t she asked the doctor straight away?
She swung her legs over the bed. Her slippers waited on the floor; her dressing gown hung on the bed rail. The paramedics must have grabbed them. Only a dull soreness lingered in her muscles.
She slipped on the gown and stood, swaying slightly. *The anaesthesia*, she guessed. A weight in the pocket made her pause. *Keys. Passport. So they locked the door.*
No mirror hung above the sink. Smoothing her hair with her hands, Emma stepped into the corridor. She shuffled toward the door labelled “Consulting Room” but found it locked, a key dangling from the knob. She kept walking, aiming for the nurses’ station to ask about the doctor’s name and rounds.
Dizziness washed over her, bile rising in her throat. She sank onto a bench in a small lounge, never reaching the station.
*Would James have been happy if he knew I could’ve had his baby?* They’d met five years ago. He’d admitted upfront that he was married—had married late, with a young child. Their affair burned fast and fierce. Emma never expected more. She’d tried to leave him countless times. He’d storm off, only to return. At first, he’d promised to leave his wife when their daughter started school. But the girl was in Year 3 now, and he hadn’t gone. Emma stopped asking. Each time, she swore it was the last—until he knocked, and she let him in.
Her thoughts shattered at the sound of voices. From the lounge, she couldn’t see the nurses’ station, nor had she been listening—until she heard her surname.
“During the surgery, Dr. Harrison found a tumour. Massive.”
Emma recognised the voice—the rosy-cheeked nurse with the braid.
“And?” A younger voice replied.
“Nothing they could do. Stitched her up. Harrison said it’s terminal. They’re moving Carter to oncology tomorrow. Still, not that old.”
“Sad,” the second nurse murmured.
Their voices faded into white noise. Emma’s pulse hammered in her ears. *Carter. That’s me. They’re talking about me. Cancer. Terminal. Why didn’t the doctor tell me?*
Trembling, she barely felt the floor beneath her as she staggered back to the ward, collapsing onto the bed. Tears of terror choked her.
Her roommate returned. Emma turned toward the window.
“You crying? Should I call someone?”
“No.” Emma stood and walked out.
Downstairs, the autumn sun shone warmly. Patients strolled the hospital gardens. No one glanced at her.
*No. I won’t go to oncology. Not ever.* The doctor’s words echoed. *How long do I have?* She remembered her mother’s death—thirty rounds of chemo before she refused more, too weak to continue.
Emma stared at the hospital building. She had nothing with her—just her keys and passport in the gown pocket. She couldn’t endure what her mother had. She wouldn’t. Turning, she walked toward the gates.
Whatever time she had left, she’d spend it at home. At least she wouldn’t lose her hair. She walked slowly, pausing on park benches. Too cold to sit for long. Passers-by eyed her hospital gown, but she didn’t care. None of it mattered now.
At home, she scrubbed away the sterile hospital smell, brewed strong tea, and ignored the dull throb in her belly.
She swung between tears and numbness. *What did I ever really live for? Who’ll bury me?* No one would visit her grave. No one would remember—except James.
For days, she barely moved, rising only for tea or the loo. On the third morning, she woke feeling rested. Studying herself in the mirror, she saw no trace of her mother’s final days—the jaundice, the wasting. Emma had always been thin. Divorce, her mother’s illness, the funeral, the exhausting dance with James—though, with him, she’d also been happy. She grabbed her phone and blocked his number. Next time he knocked, she wouldn’t answer. Let him remember her like this.
She surveyed the flat. A will. Her mother’s cousin should inherit it—not strangers. She booked an appointment with a solicitor. No riches to leave—just a wedding ring and gold earrings. A lifetime of wanting a fur coat, never buying one.
With odd satisfaction, she fried eggs and ate hungrily.
That night, she dreamed of her mother—healthy, stern, the way she’d looked when displeased. *Mum! How are you?* *I’m fine. But you…* *What did I do wrong?* Emma woke with a start, heart pounding.
She flicked on the bedside lamp. Sleep wouldn’t return.
That same disapproving stare—Year 8, bunking off school to see a film. Mum’s friend had spotted her at the cinema and tattled. The scolding had been brutal.
Now, what was wrong? Maybe she shouldThe next morning, Emma walked into the solicitor’s office, clutching her mother’s ring and a newfound will to live.
