Beloved, the Only One
A fine rain needled her face, stinging her eyes. Pauline trudged homeward, longing for the warmth of her flat. Her thoughts felt frayed, like an old, worn bedsheet. Skirting a puddle, she nearly slipped on the slick mud by the pavement’s edge. *Enough with the heels. Not a girl anymore. Time for sensible shoes.*
Finally, home. Pauline tapped in the code to the entryway. The dry, dusty warmth from the radiator—still blasting despite spring’s arrival—hit her like a wall. If only it had been this generous in winter. The lift creaked upward to the sixth floor. *Am I falling ill? Completely drained.* She leaned against the wall, eyelids heavy.
In the hallway, she collapsed onto the bench, pressing her back to the wall as her eyes fluttered shut. *Home at last.* She exhaled—then plunged into darkness, soundless and scentless.
“Mum, why are you sitting in the dark? Are you alright?”
The sound of Toby’s voice startled her, but she didn’t open her eyes.
“No, love. Just tired,” Pauline murmured, her tongue sluggish.
She could feel him watching her. Forcing her eyes open, she found the hallway empty—but light spilled from the kitchen. Kicking off her shoes, she wiggled her toes, freed from their cramped prison, and stood. The room tilted.
“Mum!” Toby lunged to steady her before she toppled into the coat rack.
“My head’s spinning.”
He guided her to the sofa in the sitting room. Pauline sank back, stretching her legs. *Heaven.* Her eyes drifted shut—until a jolt startled her awake. Toby’s worried gaze met hers.
“Mum, are you okay?”
She nodded and asked for tea. Reluctantly, he left for the kitchen.
Her mind flashed to work—waking on the office floor, no memory of collapsing. She’d blamed exhaustion then, too. *Thirty-nine and feeling ancient. Maybe I am ill. A doctor’s visit tomorrow.* With a sigh, she shuffled to the kitchen.
“You’re pale. Headache?” Toby set a steaming mug before her.
She forced a smile. “Just tired. The rain, you know.” She sipped. “Have you eaten?”
“Yeah. Got homework to finish.”
“Go on, then.” She nursed her tea, then changed into her worn, soft dressing gown. Peeking into Toby’s room, she watched him bent over his book. Her heart swelled. Her boy—her only, her everything—grown so tall. She shut the door softly.
“Doctor, what’s wrong? Just need vitamins?” The next morning, Pauline sat in the GP’s office. Rested, yet still shattered.
“Let’s see.” He scribbled referrals. “Bloodwork and an MRI. Bring results straight to me. Any family history of cancer? Stroke?”
“Yes. My father had cancer. Mum died of a stroke.” Her voice cracked. “I’ve a schoolboy son. No one else. I can’t—” The cry echoed off the walls, lodging in her throat.
“Don’t jump to conclusions. Predisposition isn’t destiny. You’re young. Rest, get tested. Here’s a sick note.”
“Mum, what did the doctor say?” Toby barged in after school as she stirred soup.
“Just tests. Don’t wake me tomorrow.”
Watching him eat, she thought, *So grown. What if it’s serious? Cancer? Don’t think it.*
“You’ve gone quiet again,” Toby said.
“Just thinking.”
Night brought no sleep. How could it, with dread gnawing? Memories surfaced—her parents’ deaths during uni, meeting Andrew. He’d been her rock, a student from Leeds. They’d moved in swiftly.
At her pregnancy, Andrew proposed. No wedding—her parents gone, his mother distant. Later, they’d visited her.
Fights came, inevitable. No one to guide them. Pauline swallowed protests when Andrew stayed out late. But when Toby was two, he left. *”I love another. Can’t do this.”*
She’d wept, clutched his shirt. He’d shoved her off and gone.
She’d put Toby in nursery, taken any job. Money vanished like smoke. Once, she’d rung Andrew—Toby needed costly medicine. He’d wired £200, sneered, *”Where’s the child support going?”*
When Toby asked about his father, she told the truth. Later, he confessed to lurking outside Andrew’s office—watching him flirt with a long-legged beauty, unseen.
Toby agonised: *Why did he choose her over us? Why don’t you dress fancy like his new wife?* How to explain sacrifices—his needs before hers—without guilt-tripping him?
Then came the rebellion. Smoking, snarling, slamming doors. She’d rung Andrew, desperate. *”Talk to him!”*
*”My wife just had a baby. No time. Or spare cash.”*
Pauline’s attempts to reason with Toby erupted in shouting, threats to run away. So much pain, so much betrayal.
But this past year, music had anchored him—guitar, not trouble. Peace, at last. Until these fainting spells. *God, why? Don’t take me. He has no one.*
In the clinic, Pauline studied the haunted faces around her. *Do I look like that?*
“Ma’am? Your turn.”
Inside, she gripped her handbag to still trembling hands.
“No good news. You’ve a brain tumour. Small, superficial. Only silver lining.”
“Cancer?”
She’d wondered how people kept breathing after such words. Yet here she sat, speaking, not screaming. The world hadn’t ended.
“Urgent surgery. Understand?”
“Yes. But I’ve no money.”
“NHS covers it. One man’s wife died waiting for funding. You’re lucky.”
“Lucky.” She laughed hollowly.
“Yes. Theatre’s booked. Pack tonight.”
“I can’t. My son’s fifteen.” Her throat constricted.
“And you might not see sixteen. Go. Now.”
From the hospital, she rang Toby, asked for clothes. He came at once.
She fought tears—was this goodbye?—forcing smiles. Toby, too, played brave.
Alone, despair swallowed him. He dialled the number copied long ago from her phone.
“Hello?” A stranger’s voice.
“Dad? It’s Toby.” Silence. “Mum’s in hospital. Surgery tomorrow. You hearing me?”
“…Yes. You’re alone?”
“Fifteen. You mean a stepdad? She never remarried. I’m scared.”
“I’ll call back.” The line died.
Toby hurled his phone. “Coward!” Sobs wracked him.
Next day, he skipped school, haunting the hospital corridor. No prayers—just pleading visions of her recovery. Promises: *Never snap again. Help always.*
The surgeon emerged. “Successful. ICU for twenty-four hours. Go home.”
Next visit, Pauline lay bandaged, eyes closed.
“Mum.”
Her lids fluttered. “Toby.”
*She knows me.* He stroked her hand. “You’ll be fine. Didn’t bring anything—”
“Got all I need.”
Later, Andrew rang. Toby spat details, then:
“Buying the new wife another fur? Diamonds? Lipo?”
“How dare you!”
Toby hung up. He never told her.
“Doctor says you’ll recover. No more arguments. Promise.”
He kept his word. Rushed home from school, yielded in disputes—remembering how close he’d come to losing her.
Who cared if she wore no makeup, dressed plainly? To him, she was perfect. His mum.
*”Without sickness, health goes uncherished; without hardship, comfort unnoticed; without doubt, faith unheld; without death, life unloved.”*
