**Diary Entry – 12th November**
I knew you could hear me, Mum.
“Gran, will you tell me a story?” asked six-year-old Oliver, shuffling under the covers.
“Only a short one. You need to sleep—you won’t wake up for nursery tomorrow.” Margaret adjusted the blanket over him.
“I will,” he promised.
She switched off the main light, leaving just the bedside lamp glowing. She picked up a book from the shelf, put on her reading glasses, and sat back down beside him.
“Not like that—lie next to me,” Oliver pleaded, shuffling aside to make room.
“I’ll fall asleep,” she sighed, but the look in his eyes made her relent. She lay down, and he immediately snuggled closer, yawning.
Margaret began reading, pausing now and then to listen to his steady breaths. When she was sure he was asleep, she carefully rose, tiptoed out of his room, and shut the door softly behind her.
In the kitchen, she touched the side of the kettle—still warm. She poured herself tea and sat at the table. “Where’s Charlotte? It’s almost eleven, and she said she’d be back by nine. Maybe she stayed at her friend’s? She should’ve called. Should I ring her? But what if she’s driving? She could get distracted, God forbid.” She crossed herself toward the small icon on the shelf. “I’ll wait a little longer.”
She took a sip and grimaced. The tea had gone cold. She poured it down the sink and stepped toward the window, staring into the thick, uneasy darkness outside.
Suddenly, her phone blared to life. Margaret startled, scrambling to silence it before it woke Oliver. She froze. An unknown number—not Charlotte’s face—flashed on the screen.
Scam callers? Too late for them. What if Charlotte’s battery died? She answered.
“Hello. Detective Inspector Harris speaking. Is Charlotte Edwards your daughter?”
“Yes. What’s happened? Why—” she began.
“How should I address you?” the man’s flat voice cut in.
“Margaret Thompson.”
“Margaret, try not to panic—”
“How can I not panic? The police don’t call at night for no reason! Or are you a fraudster? Going to ask for money? I haven’t got any, and even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you! Why aren’t you speaking?”
“Charlotte was in an accident on the motorway—”
After that, Margaret didn’t hear another word. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady her pounding heart. The inspector kept talking, but it blurred into noise. A deep breath made her cough, tears stinging her eyes.
“Just tell me—” Her voice cracked. “Is she alive?”
“Yes, but in a coma. It’s serious.”
“Which hospital?” The words fought their way out.
“St. Mary’s, but don’t come now. You’re with her son, yes? Stay with him. She’s still in surgery. Come tomorrow, and the doctor will explain everything.” He paused. “Why was she on the motorway?”
“Wait—how do you know about Oliver?”
“From her phone contacts. Now, why was she driving so late?”
Margaret’s mind spun. Harris? Hodges? She couldn’t recall his name, as if that mattered now.
“I don’t— She went to a friend’s birthday. I told her not to…” Margaret shook her head, as if he could see her. “She promised she’d be back by nine. Oliver was waiting… Oh God, what do I tell him when he wakes?” Her voice broke.
“So, a birthday party—could she have had a drink?”
“How dare you! She’s responsible—knew she had to drive home to her boy. She wouldn’t drink.” Though, privately, she wondered. “Maybe she thought to stay over, then changed her mind…”
“Apologies for disturbing you,” he said, and the line went dead.
Disturbing? He’d shattered her. What now?
She wanted to rush to the hospital, but Oliver was asleep. Her legs wobbled as she stood. She fetched a bottle of valerian drops from the fridge, counting them into a cup, then gave up and splashed in a generous dose.
“Better safe,” she muttered, adding water from the kettle before knocking it back without flinching.
She sat heavily, clutching the bottle.
“Lord, save and return Charlotte to us. She’s a mother—don’t leave her boy an orphan.” She crossed herself fervently toward the icon.
She prayed until exhaustion dragged her eyelids shut.
“Gran, wake up! Where’s Mum?” Oliver’s small hands shook her shoulder.
Margaret surfaced slowly from a thick, uneasy sleep. The memory of last night’s call hit her—she was fully awake now.
“She didn’t come home. Called to say she stayed over,” she lied, though she knew the truth would have to come out. He’d find out eventually.
“You’re fibbing. I heard you talking to someone. It wasn’t Mum.”
“Oliver… your mum’s in hospital.” She pulled him close so he wouldn’t see her tears.
“Is she sick?” He squirmed free, eyes wide.
“Yes. She had an operation. I— Maybe you could stay with Auntie Elaine next door? I’ll go to the hospital and—”
“No! I’m going with you!”
She exhaled. “Fine. Go wash up, and I’ll make tea.” She nudged him toward the door, then swayed on her feet. Bloody hell. She set the kettle on the stove and checked her blood pressure—spiked, just as she feared. She rummaged for her pills, but the box was empty.
The kettle whistled. She rushed back.
“She’s critical. The surgery went well, but she’s still in a coma,” the doctor explained when they arrived at the hospital.
“Will Mum die?” Oliver’s voice trembled.
“We’re doing everything we can,” the doctor said gently.
Margaret lifted her fingers in a pinched prayer but didn’t cross herself. “Can we see her? She loves her son—if she hears him… People in comas hear voices, don’t they? Maybe it’ll help?”
The doctor hesitated, glancing at Oliver’s tear-filled eyes. “Alright. But be calm. No crying—understand?”
Oliver nodded, lips pressed tight.
“I told her not to go… I just knew…” Margaret gasped, struggling to keep up with the doctor’s long strides, Oliver’s small hand crushed in hers.
Outside the ICU, the doctor reminded them: no noise, no tears. They nodded impatiently.
Margaret barely recognised her daughter—bandaged, bruised. “Charlotte, we’re here. Oliver’s with me. Wake up, darling. We need you.”
Oliver stared, silent.
“Adults never tell the truth,” he muttered later on the bus home. “She can’t hear us. If she could, she’d wake up. If Mum dies… will you send me to a home? You’re old.”
Margaret caught only the last bit. “I’m not old, I’m *mature*. And who put that idea in your head? You’re staying with me. When your mum wakes up, I’ll tell her what you said—you’ll be ashamed.”
She visited daily, whispering to Charlotte how much they missed her. The first few days, Oliver insisted on coming, but soon returned to nursery—though he sat alone, drawing. Margaret warned the teacher to leave him be.
Hope flickered weaker each day. The ex-husband appeared—where’d *he* heard? Rarely visited, never for Oliver, only to moan to Charlotte about his life, hoping she’d take him back. Broke, unshaven, reeking of booze.
“Which hospital? Maybe I can help,” he said.
“Help? By hurrying her along?” she snapped.
“That’s cruel. I came with good intentions—”
“What intentions?”
“I’ll take Oliver while she’s ill. I’m his father. You’re… unwell. What if something happens to you?”
“Over my dead body. You’ve never cared—where’d you even get pizza money? Forget picking him up from nursery or bedtime stories.”
“I’ll manage,” he said coolly. “You’re pale. High blood pressure? Stress isn’t good for you. I’ll take this to court—they’ll see reason. I’m younger.”
“Got a job, have you? Nearly forty and still acting a fool. No. File all the lawsuits you want—I’m his grandmother, I’ve got rights. He doesn’t know you.”
He left, grumbling about lawyers.
Oliver’s face lit up when she collected him. “Mum’s awake?”
“Not yet. But she will be.” She hesitated. “Your dad came. Wanted to take you. Do you… want to go?”
“No.”
“Good. HeSlowly, with time and countless whispered words of love, Charlotte finally opened her eyes, and though her voice was weak, the first thing she said was Oliver’s name.
