«You’ve always been a burden,» the husband said in front of the doctors.
«Margaret, for heaven’s sake, leave those IVsyou’ve been at it for hours! Go home, you can finish in the morning,» the head of the internal medicine department paused in the doorway of the treatment room, watching the elderly nurse methodically sorting through vials. «Your Arthur must be waiting up for you.»
«My Arthur stopped waiting for me thirty years ago, and hes just fine,» Margaret chuckled, but her hands didnt stopsorting, checking, arranging the trays. «Dont worry, Dr. Bennett, Ill be done soon. I just want everything ready for morning rounds.»
The consultant shook his head but didnt argue. After forty years at St. Bartholomews, Margaret had earned the right to work at her own pace. Her precision, attentiveness, and dedication were the stuff of legend in the ward.
«By the way,» he added, already turning to leave, «your patient in Room Seven was asking for you. Abigail Walters. Said you promised her some drops?»
«Oh, goodness, yes!» Margaret clapped a hand to her forehead. «Completely slipped my mind. She cant sleep, poor thing. I told her Id bring Dr. Harrisons prescription.»
«Well, sort that out, then go home,» he said sternly. «Or Arthur will ring me tomorrow, complaining Im overworking you.»
Margaret laughed. «He wont. Never got the hang of mobiles. Says hes too old for all these newfangled gadgets.»
When he left, she finished with the IVs and made her way to Room Seven. There, by the window, lay a woman in her fiftiesthin, worn, streaks of premature grey in her chestnut hair. Despite her illness, her eyes held a quiet dignity, shadowed by something deeper.
«Abigail, love, you were asking for me? Sorry, got caught up,» Margaret perched on the edge of the bed. «How are you feeling?»
«Better, thank you,» the woman managed a faint smile. «The breathlessness has eased. But I cant sleepthoughts keep spinning…»
«Thats the nerves,» Margaret nodded. «Your bodys healing. Herethe drops Dr. Harrison prescribed. Twenty in half a glass of water before bed.»
«Thank you,» Abigail took the bottle. «Youre always so kind. I havent known many people like that.»
Something in her voice made Margaret study her more closely.
«Are you all right? I dont mean your health. Does anyone visit?»
«My daughter comes when she can,» Abigail murmured. «Shes lovely, but she lives up north. My husband» She hesitated. «Hes busy. Work, you know.»
Margaret frowned but said nothing. Years on the ward had taught her to hear what wasnt said. Something here wasnt right.
«Tell you what,» she decided suddenly, «lets sort this hair of yours. Its beautiful, but tangled. Youre not strong enough yet, and God knows theres little enough comfort in hospital.»
Without waiting, she fetched a comb from the bedside drawer and began gently working through the knots. Abigail stiffened at first, then relaxed under the steady, soothing strokes.
«My mother used to do this,» she whispered. «Said it was the best cure for sadness. I did the same for my daughter when she was small. But my husband» She trailed off.
«What about him?» Margaret prompted softly.
«He called it nonsense,» Abigail finally said. «Said long hair was just extra work. That with my bad back, I ought to cut it shortmore practical. But I kept it one little rebellion.»
«Good for you,» Margaret smiled. «A womans hair is strength. Men dont understand.»
A silence fell. Margaret finished combing and began weaving a loose braid.
«Tell me about you,» Abigail asked. «A big family? You mentioned your husband»
«Oh, just me and my Arthur,» Margaret chuckled. «Our sons in Canada, shows us the grandchildren on Skype once in a blue moon. Forty-five years togetherhard to believe!»
«Forty-five» Abigail echoed. «Peter and I wouldve made thirty-two this year. If I make it.»
«Dont say that!» Margaret scolded. «Youll be fine. The op went well, your tests are improving. Youll be bouncing great-grandchildren yet.»
«Peter doesnt want grandchildren,» Abigail said quietly. «Says Im trouble enough as it is.»
Margarets hands stilled. Something in the womans tone made her chest tighten.
«Abigail,» she began carefully, «does your husband always speak to you like that?»
A long pause. Then a slow exhale.
«Not always. When we were young, he was different. Flowers, compliments. Then I got ill. Spinal issuespinched nerve, chronic pain. Had to quit my job. And Peter changed. Snapped about the meds, the housework I couldnt do»
Margaret gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
«At first I thought it was stress. Then hoped itd pass when our daughter grew up. But she left for uni, and it got worse. I became» She searched for the word. «A burden. Thats what he calls me. Youre a burden, Abigail. Nothing but expense and hassle.»
«The nerve!» Margaret burst out. «And you put up with it?»
«What choice do I have?» Abigail shrugged. «Where would I go? No one hires someone with a bad back, and my pensions pittance. My daughters starting her lifeI wont lumber her with this. So I stay. Try not to be too much trouble.»
Margaret finished the braid and sat facing her.
«Abigail, love, this isnt living. A husband should stand by you in sickness, not throw it in your face. Thirty-two years togetherdoesnt he see its not your fault?»
«Peter says it is,» Abigail looked away. «Says I ate wrong, didnt exercise, sat badly at work. And the costs I skip meds to save money. Then this ophe was furious at the bills.»
«Wait,» Margaret frowned. «But the NHS covered the surgery.»
«The surgery, yes,» Abigail nodded. «But scans, the brace, rehab Moneys tight with the mortgage, the car loan»
«Let me guesshis car?» Margaret arched a brow.
«Of course,» Abigail gave a joyless smile. «He needs it for work. Hes the breadwinner.»
Margaret opened her mouthbut just then, a young nurse hurried in.
«Margaret, call for you at the desk. Your husband.»
«Arthur? On the phone?» She blinked. «Must be an emergency. Right, Abigail, Ill pop back laterdont forget those drops.»
At the nurses station, Dr. Harrison was speaking to a middle-aged manwell-tailored, polished shoes, the commanding air of someone used to being obeyed.
«I need a timeline,» the man was saying. «How long before shes functional? When can she come home?»
«Recovery takes time,» Dr. Harrison said patiently. «At least a month here, then home rest. Shell need assistancemobility, hygiene»
«Assistance?» The mans mouth thinned. «I have a career. Cant you speed it up? Extra physio, private treatments?»
«The body heals at its own pace,» Dr. Harrison said firmly. «You could hire a carer, or perhaps family»
«Carers cost money,» the man cut in. «No family nearbyjust our daughter, and shes in Edinburgh.»
Margaret picked up the phone, half-listening. Something about him set her teeth on edge.
«Arthur? Everything all right?»
«Luv, when you coming home?» Arthurs voice was tense. «Boilers acting upthe repairman needs the homeowner here.»
«Be there soon,» she said. «Put kettle on, Im starving.»
Hanging up, she caught the tail end of the conversation.
«explain she needs to push harder. She lacks motivation.»
Dr. Harrison straightened.
«Your wife had major spinal surgery. Shes doing brilliantly, but recovery isnt a race.»
«Just take me to her,» the man snapped.
They moved toward the wardMargaret following, unease prickling her spine.
In Room Seven, Abigail was struggling to sit up. Seeing her husband, she froze.
«Peter? Youre here?»
«Obviously,» he stayed by the door. «Your doctor says youll be lazing about for weeks.»
«Im doing all the exercises»
«Not enough,» he scoffed. «Do you even grasp what this costs? Third time Ive taken leave to ferry your things. And the meds you keep demanding»
«I dont demand,» she whispered. «Just whats necessary.»
«Necessary?» He laughed coldly. Margaret stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. «Shes not lazing, shes healing. And shes not a burdenshes a woman whos been through hell and is still fighting.» Peter turned, startled, as if noticing her for the first time. «You dont get to walk in here and shame her for surviving. If you cant stand by her, then step aside and let those who care do what you wont.» The room fell silent. Abigail looked up at Margaret, tears spilling over, and for the first time in years, something fragile and bright flickered in her eyesnot hope, not yet, but the memory of it. Later that night, after Peter had stormed out and the ward had quieted, Margaret slipped back into Room Seven and gently undid the braid shed woven earlier. Lets let it breathe, she whispered, combing through the strands once more. You rest now. Ill be here in the morning. And she was.
