In the dimly lit hospital corridor, little five-year-old Edward had been whisked away to the upper floors. His mother, Margaret, was barred from following and left to wait below on one of the worn wooden chairs, flinching at every distant sound. Her mind fogged with dread, she fumbled for the telephone and called her husband. “Edward’s in danger,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Hes barely holding on. Its serious.”
Her husband, Thomas, replied calmly, “Hes made of the same stuff as me and his grandfathertough as nails. Dont go off the deep end. Alls well. Were at the cottage, picking mushrooms with your mum. Go home, let the doctors do their job. They know what theyre about.”
How stifling it was in that grim corridor, its flickering lights indifferent to her suffering. She stumbled out to the hospital steps, dialling her mother with trembling fingers. “Mum, Edwards not well. I saw it in the doctors faces. Hes bad, Mum.” And then the tears came.
Her mother answered briskly, “Listen to me now. Trouble breeds trouble. Put those thoughts out of your head. Think only good things. Believe in them. Light follows light. Wallowing wont help a soul. Pull yourself together.”
The air was thick in the corridor. The matron shot her a stern look. “Now then, dear, no hysterics. Youll only get in the way.”
Only her sister, only Jane. No one else would understand. “Jane, Edwards in a bad way. The doctors wont say whats wrong. Hes unconscious!”
Janes voice softened. “Children have these spells sometimes. Growing pains, they call it. Trust me. Youll only make yourself ill with all this weeping.”
Margaret retreated to the farthest end of the passage, where the shadows clung thickest. The building, untouched since before the war, bore its neglect like a scar. Clutching the small silver cross at her throat, she glanced around once before sinking to her knees. She pressed the cross to her lips, past caring who might see.
“Almighty God,” she murmured, “You who know suffering, who felt pain as I do, whose own Mother wept as I weep nowstretch out Your hand to me. There is no one else, only You and this grief inside me. I beg for Your mercy, Your love. Help me, dear Lord. Only You.”
She stayed there, frozen in supplication, until the creak of a door broke the silence. A figure stepped into the dim lightthe physician, his face lined with years of quiet wisdom. He saw her, knelt beside her, and offered his hand. “Stand up,” he said gently. “Breathe. Your boy will be well. Thats my word to you. Come now, rise.”
Leaning into the kindness of his grip, she stood. “I cant speak,” she managed. “Thank you. May I stay the night? On these chairs?”
The elderly doctor smiled. “Go home. Thats the best place for you now. Rest easyall will be well. Ring us in the morning.” And he pressed his card into her palm.
By morning, Thomas, Jane, and her mother all insisted they had been right all along. She ought to have listened, not carried on like some madwoman.
None of them understood that the truest rightness lay beyond themin a mothers prayer, in a love that would not falter, in the One who would never turn away.
