**Diary Entry 12th November 2023**
Golden sunlight seeped through the half-drawn blinds, painting stripes across the kitchen table. Outside, the oak tree rustled in the breeze, and the distant hum of London traffic was a steady, unremarkable backdrop. My five-year-old son, Oliver, sat swinging his legs in mismatched socks, scribbling in his sketchbook. The pencil scraped against the paper as he drew a lopsided cottage with a crooked chimney.
Mum, he said suddenly, without looking up, is it true Im getting a new heart soon?
I froze, the spoon in my hand trembling. His innocent questions always struck deep. Yes, love, I managed. The surgery will fix everything. Youll be able to play football like the other boys.
But my voice wavered. The dread that had coiled inside me all week tightened its grip. You know that feelingwhen the air turns thick and your thoughts drag like stones?
Mum, Im hungry! Oliver tossed his pencil, and it rolled under the fridge.
Just a mo, darling. I forced a smile, though my hands shook. Ill make your favourite cheese toastie.
But when I opened the biscuit tin where we kept the surgery money, my stomach dropped. It was empty. The shelf gaped back at me, bare as a wound.
No. No, no I yanked open drawers, spilling tea bags and old receipts. Nothing.
Ice flooded my veins. I grabbed my phonetwelve missed calls from James. Last nights memory hit me: his shifty glances, his too-loud laugh when I mentioned the surgeons appointment.
**Childhood, 1998**
James had always been my shadow. At seven, hed sprinted home in tears after breaking a classroom window. I took the blame, told the teacher it was me. His promise*Ill always have your back*had sounded so real. But time erodes even the strongest vows.
**12:15 PM Jamess Flat**
I barged in without knocking. The stink of stale lager and cigarettes choked the air. James stood by the window, fingers picking at the curtain. A half-empty pack of Benson & Hedges lay on the sill.
James! My voice cracked. Wheres the money?
He turned slowly. Dark circles carved under his eyes. That same smirk that used to charm teachers. Dunno what you mean.
You. Stole. Olivers. Surgery money. My voice shook. Thats not just cashits his *life*.
He looked away. Needed it. Debts. You know how it is.
No, I *dont*! Rage burned my throat. Last year, it was the loan against the house. Now this? Do you even *care* if he doesnt make it?
James reached for a whiskey bottle but stopped. Ill pay it back. Swear.
When? When hes in a *coffin*? Tears blurred my vision. Youve seen his tests. He cant even climb stairs without gasping!
Something wild flashed in his eyes. You think this is easy for me? I remember him curled up with us at story time. But Im *trapped*.
Theres always a choice! I hurled an empty pill blister at the floor. You just chose wrong.
**12:41 PM Home**
The playground near our house was quiet. Wind tossed crisp packets in the bin. Oliver slept fitfully, his brow pinched even in dreams. I stroked his hair. Mummy will sort this.
But how? The hospital needed £3,000. Three days left.
**3:23 AM**
My phone buzzed. James: *Got £500. Transferring tomorrow. Rest next week.* I gripped it till my knuckles whitened. His tomorrow was always a lie.
**7:15 AM Work**
I stared blankly at spreadsheets. My colleague, Sarah, pressed tea into my hands. You look awful. Take a day.
Cant.
At lunch, I begged banks for loans. The clerk at Barclays, a woman with silver-streaked hair, sighed. Love, youre in over your head. Try a car loan.
The carour second-hand Vauxhall wed saved two years for. But wheels or my boys heart?
**7:48 PM**
James turned up reeking of booze. Here. He tossed a wad on the table. Five hundred. Rest soon.
I counted. Four-seventy. Wheres the thirty?
Taxi. He wouldnt meet my eyes.
You took a *taxi*? My shout woke Oliver.
Mum, Im scared His voice trembled from the bedroom.
James flinched. Didnt mean for this. They were pushing
*Who*? I stepped closer. Your dealer mates? Youre gambling with your *nephews life*!
Silence. Only his fingers, twisting his jacket cuff, betrayed him.
**Two Days Later 2:00 PM Hospital**
Oliver lay swaddled in wires. The doctor, a weary bloke in scrubs, shook his head. No payment, no procedure.
Ill get it! I grabbed his arm. By tonight.
He peeled my hand off gently. Youve got till morning.
**11:59 PM Jamess Flat**
I kicked the door till a neighbour let me in. Inside: shattered glass, blood smeared on the floor. James, duct-taped to a chair, lip split.
They took everything, he rasped.
*Who*? I tore the tape off.
Cant tell. Just *run*
Too late. Three masked men kicked in the door. Metal glinted in their fists.
**Months Later**
Oliver and I moved to Croydon. I scrubbed offices nights, sold muffins by the Tube days. My hands cracked, but I smiled when he said, Mum, these are better than Tescos!
Then, a miracle: a charity covered the surgery. Oliver sprinted down corridors, laughing. I counted his steps10, 20, 30
**2023 Oxford Street**
Oliver, now eight, chattered about his school project: My Family. Then I saw James. His once-broad shoulders stooped. He dug through a bin, fingers shaking.
James? My voice broke.
He turned. Hollow eyes. Alright, sis.
*Why*? I choked. Id have given you *anything*but you stole what wasnt yours!
He stared at Oliver, who hid behind me. Looks like you did as a kid, James whispered. Tell him Uncle James was ill.
And I understood. His debts werent to men. His demons werent flesh. Hed tried to save himselfand lost everything.
**Today**
Oliver won his school science prize. He wants to be a doctor. On his door, a sign: *Beware of Dog!* (Weve never had one.)
Mum, he asked last night, why didnt Uncle James have kids?
I ruffled his hair. Some people dont know how to love, sweetheart. But you? Youre brilliant at it.
Outside, rain tapped the windowgentle as that Sunday years ago. But now I know: even silence holds the echo of a broken soul.
**Lesson learned:** Blood ties dont mean loyalty. Sometimes, the deepest wounds come from those who were supposed to shield you. But lovereal lovefinds a way. Even in the cracks.
