Sunlight peeked through the dusty blinds, casting golden stripes across the kitchen table. Outside, an oak tree rustled in the breeze, while the distant hum of London traffic played its usual soundtrack. Five-year-old Oliver sat swinging his legs in dinosaur-patterned socks, scribbling in his notebook with a squeaky crayon. His drawinga lopsided cottage with chimney smokelooked like something straight out of a Primary School art show.
“Mum,” he piped up without glancing from his masterpiece, “is it true Im getting a new heart soon?”
The spoon froze mid-stir in my custard. His innocent bluntness could floor me every time. “Absolutely, love. Itll be like wizardryyoull be right as rain, racing about with the other boys.”
My voice wobbled. The dread Id been swallowing all week surged up like bad indigestion. Ever had that feeling where your lungs forget how air works?
12:03 PM
“Mum, Im *starving*!” Oliver chucked his crayonit ricocheted under the fridge like a rogue Lego.
“Patience, ducky,” I chirped, though my insides were doing the cha-cha. “Lets whip up your favourite cheese toastie.”
But the universe had other plans. The biscuit tin where we stashed the surgery funds? Gone. The shelf gaped back at me, emptier than a politicians promises.
“No. No, *no*” I upended drawers in a panic. Tea bags, half-used birthday candles, a lone crumpet but no tin. My stomach performed an Olympic dive.
Twelve missed calls from *Thomas* blinked on my mobile. Last nights memories flooded backhis shifty eyes lingering by the biscuit jar, that over-loud chuckle when I mentioned the cardiologist.
**Childhood Flashback: 1998**
Thomas had been my human shadow. At seven, hed grassed himself up for nicking sweets from Mr Patels corner shop. I took the blamegot grounded for a fortnight. His tearful “Ill *always* have your back!” had sounded so earnest then. But times a right scoundrel, isnt it?
12:15 PM. Thomass Flat
I barged in without knocking. The place reeked of lager and regret. Thomas stood by the window, fiddling with a frayed curtain like it owed him money. Fag butts crowded a chipped ashtray; a battered pack of Benson & Hedges slumped nearby.
“*Thomas!*” My shriek startled a pigeon outside. “Wheres Olivers surgery money?”
He turned slowly. Dark circles under his eyesthe sort you get from binge-watching trouble. That same smirk that once fooled our maths teacher. “Dunno what you mean.”
“You. Pinched. *Twenty grand*.” My nails bit my palms. “Thats not just cashthats *Olivers heartbeat*!”
He studied his trainers. “Needed it sort of urgent. Debts. You know how it is.”
“I *dont*!” Fury turned my vision blotchy. “Last year it was borrowing Nans inheritance, now *this*? Dyou even *hear* how Oliver wheezes climbing stairs?”
Silence. His hand twitched toward a whisky bottle. “Ill pay you back. Swear.”
“When? When hes *blue in the face*?” My tears threatened to short-circuit my mascara. “You *saw* his scans!”
Suddenly, he spun round, eyes wild as a cornered fox. “Think this is *easy* for me? I remember reading him *Peter Rabbit*! But Im *stuck*!”
“Theres *always* a choice!” I lobbed an empty Calpol box at the wall. “You just fancied the *cowards exit*!”
12:41 PM. Home
Passing the park where Oliver dreamed of going on the big slide, I nearly tripped over a rogue football. Back home, hed conked out mid-Lego battle, his forehead still crinkled in sleep.
I smoothed his hairfine as cornflour. “Mummys sorting it, poppet”
*But how?* The clock mocked me: £20k short. Three days till surgery.
**3:23 AM**
My phone buzzed like an angry wasp. Thomas: “Got 5k. Will transfer AM. Rest next week.” I gripped it till my knuckles screamed. His “next week” was as reliable as a chocolate teapot.
**7:15 AM**
At the office, my reports swam before me. Tracey from HR nudged a cuppa toward me, eyes full of pity. “You look peaky, love. Take a sick day?”
“Cant,” I whispered. “Not an option.”
Lunchtime saw me begging banks like a Dickensian orphan. The NatWest tellera gran with a name badge reading *Marge*peered over her specs. “Dearie, youre in a proper pickle. Ever thought of pawning your car?”
The car. Our *Vauxhall* wed scrimped two years for. But whats metal compared to a heartbeat?
**7:48 PM**
Thomas reappeared, reeking of cheap aftershave and poorer choices. “Here.” He tossed a wad on the table. “Five grand. Rest soon.”
I counted. *£4,750.* “Wheres the 250 quid?”
“Taxi fare,” he muttered.
“You took a *black cab*?!” My roar woke Oliver.
“Mummy, whos shouting?” trembled from his room.
Thomas flinched. “Didnt mean for They were gonna *hurt* me”
“They who? Your *bookie mates*?” I stepped closer, nails carving half-moons into skin. “You gambled my *sons life*!”
His silence said it all.
**Two Days Later. 2 PM. St. Barts**
Oliver lay tiny in the hospital bed, wires snaking under his *Paw Patrol* pyjamas. The consultanta bloke younger than my Netflix subscriptionshook his head. “No funds, no tests. Too risky.”
“Ill get it!” I grabbed his sleeve like a life raft. “*Tonight*.”
He peeled me off gently. “24 hours. No more.”
**11:59 PM. Thomass Flat**
I kicked the door till Doris from 3B threatened to call the Met. Inside looked like a pub brawl aftermath: shattered mugs, a suspicious red smear, and Thomasduct-taped to a chair, lip split like an overripe tomato.
“They took it,” he slurred. “*Everything*.”
“*Who* took it?!” I ripped the tape off, his wrist sticky with Haribo residue.
“Dont look for them.” His bloodshot eyes locked onto mine. “*Run*.”
Too late. The door burst open. Three blokes in balaclavas, knuckles gleaming with amateur dentistry.
**Six Months Later**
Oliver and I relocated to a shoebox in Croydon. I scrubbed offices nights, sold fairy cakes at Peckham market days. My hands cracked like dry earth, but Id grin when Oliver announced, “Mums buns beat *Greggs*!”
Thenmiracle of miraclesa childrens charity covered the op. Post-surgery, Oliver dashed down the ward corridor, giggling. I counted his steps: *10, 20, 30*
**Present Day. Oxford Street**
Olivernow in Year 4chattered about his “Family Tree” project. Then I spotted *him*. Thomas, hunched like a question mark, foraging in a bin outside *Primark*. His fingersonce nimble enough to pick locksfumbled over a mouldy pasty.
“Thomas?” My voice cracked like old pavement.
He turned. Hollow eyes. “Alright, sis.”
“Why?” The word scraped out. “Id have *burned the world* for you. But you stole the *one thing*”
He stared at Oliver, who ducked behind me. “Looks like you. Same chin.” A rattling cough. “Tell him Uncle Tom was poorly.”
And *click*the penny dropped. His “debts” werent to men. His “mates” were needles and powder. Hed tried saving himself and lost the plot entirely.
**Epilogue**
Today, Oliver won his school science trophy. Wants to be a “heart mender.” His bedroom door sports a *”Beware of Dog”* sign (weve never owned so much as a goldfish).
“Mum,” he asked last night, “why didnt Uncle Tom have kids?”
I tucked him in. “Some folks love all wrong, pumpkin. But you? You love *properly*.”
Outside, rain pattered like it did that Sunday years ago. But now I kneweven silence screams, if you listen close enough.
