**Journal Entry – 19th March**
There’s nothing more terrifying in this world…
“Well, everything looks fine with Oliver. I’ll clear him for nursery.” The doctor handed Emily the note. “No more falling ill, alright, Oliver?”
The little boy nodded and glanced up at his mum.
“Let’s go.” Emily took his hand, pausing at the door to murmur, “Goodbye.”
“Bye!” Oliver echoed behind her.
In the corridor, Emily sat him down on a chair while she fetched their coats from the locker. Oliver swung his legs excitedly, watching the other children with curiosity. Once bundled up, Emily tightened his scarf.
“Back to nursery tomorrow. Missed it?” she asked.
“Course!” he chirped.
They stepped out of the clinic into the frosty afternoon, trudging toward the bus stop through slushy snow.
“Mum! Mu-um—” Oliver tugged at her sleeve, snapping her out of her thoughts about work tomorrow, about life finally settling back into rhythm.
“What?” She followed his gaze to a woman pushing an open pram. Inside sat a boy Oliver’s age, mouth agape, a thin trail of drool on his chin, eyes vacant.
Emily looked away instantly.
“Mum, why’s that boy in a pram? He’s big,” Oliver whispered.
“He’s poorly,” she said.
“But you never pushed *me* in a pram when I was ill.”
“Come on, love. His illness is… different.” She pulled him toward the bus stop, stealing one last glance at the woman disappearing into the crowd.
Since Oliver’s birth, she couldn’t bear seeing sick children—her heart clenched with pity, imagining herself in those mothers’ shoes. Most faced it alone. Husbands often left, unable to cope. At least some had family nearby.
But could *she* have done it? Carried that weight? Or would she have left her child at the hospital? Her *Oliver*? Never. The mere thought made her shudder.
On the bus ride home, memories flooded in…
***
She’d been pretty, cheerful. Dated a bit, never rushed into marriage, let alone motherhood. But time passed. Friends married—some more than once—their kids already in primary school. Relatives would ask, *Still not wed?* eyebrows lifting at her answer.
Eventually, she longed for it—a family, a child. Imagined cooking for a husband, pushing a pram alongside other mums. But the men she fancied were taken or too scarred by past divorces to commit. The ones who wanted *her*? Not her type. The old song of mismatched timing.
Then she met *him*. Not her usual sort, but friends and Mum insisted: *It’s time. If not now, when? Your clock’s ticking.* She wasn’t being picky. Life just… never aligned.
He spoke of love, children, futures. Proposed grandly. She said yes.
After the lavish wedding, she fell pregnant almost immediately. Why wait? Thirty-three wasn’t young.
She’d smile at strangers’ babies, linger in baby aisles, tracing tiny socks and dresses. A hand would drift to her stomach, shielding the life inside. She already loved her—*her daughter*. For some reason, she’d been certain it was a girl.
Morning sickness faded, but nightmares took its place. Dreams of losing the baby in crowds, finding an empty pram. *He was here—now gone.* She’d wake gasping, grasping her belly—still there, still whole. But the fear lingered.
“Normal fears,” the midwife assured her.
One day, the baby stopped moving. She waited, panicked, and rushed to hospital for a scan.
“Why won’t you *speak*?” she begged, watching the sonographer’s tense focus.
“Relax, Mum. Heartbeat’s strong.” A button clicked—*thump-thump-thump* filled the room. “Just a deep sleeper. Can’t wake him.”
“*Him*? A boy?”
“You didn’t know?”
When a faint kick finally came, she exhaled. “Alive! He’s awake!”
As the due date neared, terror grew. Her back ached; her belly was enormous.
“Big baby. A bruiser,” the doctors said.
“Can I deliver naturally?”
“You’ll manage,” the obstetrician smiled.
“But I’m ‘elderly’ for a first-time mum, aren’t I?”
“Women deliver at forty these days. You’re fine.”
“What if I opt for a C-section?”
The midwife’s patience frayed. “*Why*? No medical need. You’ll cope.”
“But my dreams—I *know* it sounds mad, but—”
“Stop overthinking. All mums panic.”
Emily left, trembling. Maybe she *was* hysterical. Other women feared birth too. But then—where did sick children come from?
Two days later, she rang an old colleague whose ex-husband was an OB-GYN. A fluke—he answered, listened, didn’t lecture. Calm, certain. He scheduled the C-section without debate.
***
Now, on the bus, Oliver chattered nonstop. “Mum, *promise* you’ll buy me that toy lorry?”
“Promise.”
She thought of the boy in the pram. That mother’s burden—never hearing her child’s voice, never seeing him run.
Let them call her paranoid. She’d fought for Oliver’s safe arrival.
Happiness wasn’t houses, careers, or even love. Real happiness was a healthy child, warm in your arms, babbling nonsense, grinning up at you.
Doctors saved lives. But they didn’t always listen—to the gut-deep fears mothers carried. They should. Some instincts ran older than medicine.
