The light drizzle stung her face, blurring her vision. Poppy trudged along, longing for the warmth of home. Her mind felt foggy, thoughts fraying like an old, worn-out bedsheet. Stepping around yet another puddle, she nearly slipped on the muddy edge of the pavement. “Enough with the heels. I’m not a teenager. Time for sensible shoes.”
Finally, home. Poppy tapped in the entry code, and the dry, dusty warmth from the radiator hit her—blasting full heat despite it being spring. Typical. The lift creaked its way up to the sixth floor. “Am I coming down with something? Utterly knackered,” she thought, leaning against the wall.
In the hallway, she collapsed onto the pouffe, pressing her back against the wall and closing her weary eyes. “Home. At last.” The next thing she knew, darkness swallowed her—no sound, no scent.
“Mum, why are you sitting in the dark? You okay?”
Jack’s voice startled her, but she kept her eyes shut.
“Just tired, love,” she mumbled, her tongue sluggish.
She could *feel* him staring. Forcing her eyes open, she found the hallway empty—but the kitchen light was on. Kicking off her shoes, she wiggled her cramped toes and stood. Immediately, she swayed into the coat rack.
“Mum!” Jack lunged forward, steadying her.
“Dizzy spell.”
He guided her to the sofa. Poppy sank into it, stretching her legs out. “Bliss.” Her eyelids fluttered shut… then jerked open as she snapped back to awareness, meeting Jack’s worried gaze.
“You sure you’re alright?”
She nodded and asked for tea. Reluctantly, he shuffled off to the kitchen.
Meanwhile, she remembered fainting at work—no recollection of collapsing. Just brushed it off as exhaustion. “Thirty-nine and feeling ancient. Maybe I *am* ill. GP tomorrow.” With a sigh, she hauled herself up.
“You look peaky. Headache?” Jack set down a steaming mug.
Poppy forced a smile. “Just tired, and the rain.” She took a sip. “You eaten?”
“Yeah. Got homework.”
“Go on, then. I’m fine.” She nursed her tea, changed into her ratty old dressing gown, and peeked into Jack’s room. He hunched over his books. Her heart swelled. Her boy—her whole world—so grown-up. She closed the door softly.
“Doctor, what’s wrong? Just need vitamins?” The next morning, Poppy sat in the surgery. She’d slept but still felt wrecked.
“Let’s see. Here’s for bloods and an MRI. Bring results straight back. Any family history of cancer? Stroke?”
“My dad had cancer. Mum died of a stroke. So, it could be… I’ve got a son. Just us. I *can’t*—” Her voice cracked, the words lodging in her throat.
“Let’s not jump ahead. Predisposition isn’t destiny. Get these tests done. Here’s a sick note—rest up.”
“Mum, you saw the doctor? What’d he say?” Jack found her stirring soup when he got home.
“Just tests tomorrow. Lie-in for me.”
She watched him eat. “Practically a man. What if it’s serious? Cancer?” Best not to dwell.
“Mum? You spaced out again.”
She blinked.
“You’ve been proper foggy lately,” he said.
“Just thinking.”
Sleep eluded her that night. How could she, with doom scrolling through her mind? Memories surfaced—her parents passing during uni, meeting Liam. He’d been her rock back then, a bloke from Leeds in the same halls. They moved in fast.
When she got pregnant, Liam proposed straight off. No fussy wedding—her parents gone, his mum up north. They visited her later.
Of course, they rowed. No one to mediate. Poppy bit her tongue when Liam lingered at the pub. But when Jack was two? “I’m in love with someone else. Can’t do this anymore.”
She’d sobbed, clutched his shirt. He shoved her off and left. Nursery fees, rent, never enough—she scraped by with side gigs. Only once did she call Liam, when Jack needed pricey meds. He sent £200 and sneered, “Where’s the child support going?”
When Jack asked about his dad, Poppy was honest. Later, Jack confessed he’d stalked Liam’s office—only to see him laughing with some glamorous woman. “Why don’t you dress like her?” How could she explain? Every penny went to him. She feared sounding like she blamed him.
Then came Jack’s rebellious phase—smokes in his pockets, slammed doors. She rang Liam, desperate. “New baby. No time. Or spare cash.”
Jack mellowed lately, obsessing over guitar. Problems seemed past. Until now—fainting, weakness. “Why me? Jack’s got no one else.”
In the hospital waiting room, she studied the other patients—pale, tense. “Do I look that scared?”
“Next, please. Changed your mind?” The nurse’s voice snapped her back.
Inside, Poppy clutched her handbag strap, hands trembling.
“No good news, I’m afraid. Brain tumour. Small, superficial. That’s the silver lining.”
“I’ve got cancer?”
She’d always wondered how people functioned hearing that. Yet here she was, numb.
“Urgent surgery. On the NHS—you’re lucky.”
“Lucky,” she echoed, dry.
“Yes. Waiting lists kill people. Brain ops are risky, but you’ve a real chance. They’ll take you *now*. Results, paperwork—go.”
“I can’t. My son’s fifteen. Just us.” Her throat tightened.
“And you might not see him grown. *Go.*”
So she went. Called Jack from the hospital—he dashed over with her things.
Poppy fought tears, smiling bravely. Jack did too, insisting he’d manage.
Alone at home, despair hit. He dug out Liam’s number (stolen during a row ages back) and rang. Endless dial tone. Just as he gave up—
“Hello?”
A stranger’s voice. Had to be him.
“Dad. It’s Jack. Mum’s in hospital—surgery tomorrow—”
Silence. Then: “You alone there?”
“I’m *fifteen*. No ‘stepdad’, if that’s what you’re asking. She never remarried. Dad, I’m scared.”
“I’ll call back—” *Click.*
Jack hurled his phone. “Coward.”
Next day, he skipped school, pacing the hospital corridor. No prayers—just bargaining. *If she lives, I’ll never shout again…*
The surgeon emerged. “Success. ICU for 24 hours—no visitors. Go home.”
Next day, they let him in. Bandaged, eyes closed.
“Mum?”
Her lids fluttered. “Jack.” *She knew him.* He stroked her hand.
“Doctor says you’ll be fine. Didn’t bring anything—”
“Got all I need,” she whispered.
Later, Liam rang. Jack answered curtly.
“Wife just had a girl. Couldn’t come—”
“Buy her another designer coat, then? Or a boob job?” Jack’s voice shook.
“*Excuse me?*”
Jack hung up. Didn’t tell Poppy.
“Doctor says you’ll recover. I’ll never argue again. Promise.”
He kept that vow—raced home daily to check on her. So what if she wore primark jumpers? No makeup? She was *his* mum. Perfect.
(After all—no illness, no valuing health; no hardship, no treasuring peace; no faithlessness, no cherishing loyalty; no death, no loving life.)
