Sunlight spilled through the dusty blinds, painting the kitchen table in gold. Outside, the oak tree rustled, and the distant hum of London traffic played its usual soundtrack. Five-year-old Oliver sat swinging his legs in mismatched socks, scribbling in his sketchbook with a crayon that had seen better days. The wobbly lines formed a lopsided cottage with smoke curling from its chimneya masterpiece in the making.
«Mum,» he said, not looking up, «is it true Im getting a new heart soon?»
The spoon froze halfway to my mouth. His innocent question hit like a punch. «Yes, love,» I managed, forcing cheer into my voice. «The doctors will fix you right up. Youll be chasing footballs in no time.»
But my smile felt brittle. The dread that had been gnawing at me all week tightened its grip. Ever had that feeling when the air turns to syrup and your thoughts weigh a ton?
«Muuum, Im starving!» Oliver declared, tossing his crayon under the fridge with impressive aim.
«Hold your horses, sweetheart,» I said, though my hands shook. «Lets whip up your favourite cheesy omelette.»
Then I opened the biscuit tinthe one where wed stashed every spare quid for his surgeryand my stomach dropped. Gone. Just an empty space where hope used to be.
«No. No, no, no» I yanked drawers open, sending pasta packets and takeaway menus flying. Nothing. The room spun. I grabbed my phone: twelve missed calls from Ethan. Last nights memory crashed backhis too-casual loitering in the kitchen, the way hed laughed too loud when I mentioned the surgeons appointment.
**Flashback: 1998**
Ethan had always been my shadow. At seven, hed sobbed after smashing a classroom window, and Id taken the blame. «Ill always have your back,» hed sworn. Funny how promises evaporate like morning mist.
**12:15 PM. Ethans Flat**
I didnt knock. The place reeked of stale lager and regret. Ethan stood by the window, picking at the peeling wallpaper.
«Ethan.» My voice couldve cut glass. «Where. Is. The. Money?»
He turned slowly. Dark circles, shaky handsthe portrait of a man whod made bad choices. «Dunno what youre on about.»
«That was Olivers surgery fund!» I hissed. «Not just cashhis *life*!»
He couldnt meet my eyes. «Needed it. Debts. You know how it is.»
«I *dont*,» I spat. «First you guilt-trip me into co-signing that dodgy loan, now this? Do you even *care* that Oliver cant walk to the loo without turning blue?»
His fingers twitched toward a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey. «Ill pay you back. Swear.»
«When? When hes in A&E?» Tears burned. «Youve seen his charts. Youve *heard* him gasping for air!»
Something flickered in his eyesshame or panic, I couldnt tell. «You think this is easy for me? I *love* the kid! But I didnt have a choice!»
«Theres *always* a choice,» I snapped, kicking a crumpled crisp packet. «You just picked the worst one.»
**12:41 PM. Home**
Passing the park where Oliver dreams of playing football, I nearly tripped over a discarded Happy Meal box. Inside, he was curled up asleep, his forehead creased even in dreams.
«Ill fix this, baby,» I whispered, smoothing his hair. But how? The hospital needed £15,000. Three days left.
**Night. 3:23 AM**
Ethans text buzzed: *Got 5k. Wire it tomorrow. Rest next week.* I gripped the phone till my knuckles whitened. His «tomorrows» were as reliable as British summer weather.
**Morning. 7:15 AM**
At the office, my colleague Gemma slid me a cuppa, eyebrows knitted. «You look proper poorly. Take a sick day.»
«Cant,» I muttered.
By lunch, Id begged three banks for loans. The teller at Barclaysa grandmotherly typepeered over her glasses. «Love, youre in a state. Ever thought of selling your car?»
The car. Our rusty Vauxhall wed scrimped for. But whats metal compared to a heartbeat?
**Evening. 7:48 PM**
Ethan rocked up stinking of bargain-bin aftershave. «Here.» He tossed an envelope. «Five grand. Rest soon.»
I counted it. £4,750. «Wheres the 250?»
«Taxi,» he mumbled.
«You took a *taxi*?!» My shout woke Oliver.
«Mummy, youre scary,» came his sleepy voice.
Ethan winced. «Didnt mean for it to go like this. The blokes I owe»
«Drug dealers? Gamblers?» I got in his face. «Youre betting with my sons *life*!»
Silence. Just his fists clenching his jacket like it was a lifeline.
**Two Days Later. 2:00 PM. Hospital**
Oliver lay wired to machines, his wrists bird-bone thin. The consultanta bloke who looked like he hadnt slept since unishook his head. «No payment, no procedure.»
«Ill get it!» I grabbed his sleeve. «By tonight!»
He peeled my hand off gently. «24 hours. No more.»
**11:59 PM. Ethans Flat**
I hammered till the neighbour threatened to call the cops. Inside: smashed Xbox, blood on the lino, and Ethan duct-taped to a chair, lip split.
«They cleaned me out,» he rasped.
«Who?» I ripped the tape off.
His eyes darted. «Just *go*. Theyre coming»
The door burst open. Three masked blokes. One held a cricket bat.
**Six Months Later**
We moved to a tiny flat in Brighton. I scrubbed offices at night and sold cupcakes by the pier by day. My hands cracked from bleach, but Olivers grin when he said, «Mum, these beat Tescos!» made it worth it.
Then the miracle: a childrens charity covered the surgery. Olivers first sprint down the hospital corridortwenty wobbly stepswas the best thing Id ever seen.
**Present Day**
Olivers now obsessed with becoming a doctor. His bedroom door sports a «Beware of the Dog» sign (weve never owned so much as a goldfish).
«Mum,» he asked yesterday, «why didnt Uncle Ethan have kids?»
I ruffled his hair. «Some people forget how to love, sweetheart. But you? Youve got enough for both of us.»
Outside, rain tapped the windowsame as that awful Sunday. But now I knew: even silence can scream.
