Whispers Behind the Glass

**Whisper Behind the Glass**

The orderlya woman with a weary, wind-beaten face and eyes dulled from years of witnessing others’ painshifted Emilys transparent bag from one calloused hand to the other. The plastic crinkled, shattering the tomb-like silence of the lift. Inside the bag, mocking in its cheerfulness, were tiny baby clothes: a pink bunny-print onesie, a little vest embroidered with *”Mummys Little Joy”*, and a pack of newborn nappies, white with blue trim. The bold number “1” on the packaging felt like a tauntfor babies just beginning their journey.

The lift groaned, its old cables creaking as it descended, and with each floor, Emilys heart clenched tighter, crumpling into a small, helpless knot of pain.

“Itll be alright, love,” the orderly rasped, her voice like the squeak of an unoiled door in an empty house. “Youre young, strong. Youll have more. Things things will work out.”

She shot Emily a quick, furtive glanceawkward sympathy mixed with a desperate urge for this excruciating ride to end.

“Got any other kids?” she asked, filling the suffocating silence.
“No” Emily exhaled, staring at the blinking floor buttons. Her voice was hollow.
“Ah. Thats harder,” the orderly murmured. “You decided yet? Burial or cremation?”
“Burial,” Emily whispered, pressing her lips into a bloodless line. Her reflection in the lifts scratched mirror was a strangerpale, hollow-eyed.

The orderly sighed, almost professionally. Shed seen thousands like this. Young, old, broken. Life in these walls was split into *before* and *after*. And Emily had just crossed into *after*.

She was leaving the hospital alone. No pastel-wrapped bundle, no happy gurgling under a carefully tucked blanket, no smiling relatives with awkwardly clutched carnations. Just her husband, James, waiting at the foot of the hospital steps, shoulders slumped as if carrying an impossible weight, his eyes heavy with guilt.

James hugged her stiffly, like a stranger afraid his touch might deepen the wound. His arms didnt warm her. It was just a formalitya ritual to endure. No photos by the entrance, no tearful farewells. The automatic doors hissed shut behind them, sealing away a chapter of their lives.

“Ive, uh been to the funeral directors,” James muttered, starting the car. The engine coughed to life. “Sorted everything for tomorrow. But if you if you want to change anything, you can. Picked a white wreath, small. The caskets beige, with pink” His voice cracked.

“Doesnt matter,” Emily cut in, staring at the fogged-up window. “I cant talk about this now.”
“Right. Yeah.” He cleared his throat, gripping the wheel.

The December sun was treacherously bright, glinting off puddles, blinding her, dancing on passing cars. It screamed of lifelife that was gone. Where was the wind? The biting rain? The slushy snow sticking to her face like Gods spit for her sins? That wouldve been fair. That wouldve made sense.

They drove past the hospital gates into the sun-drenched street. Emilys gaze landed on their mud-splattered car.

“Christ, its filthy”
“Meant to wash it. Three days ago, but then well.”
“You ill?” She turned to him.
“No. Why?”
“You keep coughing.”
“Nah, just nerves. Throats tight.”

The world outside hadnt changed. Same city, same fag-ends clinging to kerbs, same skeletal trees against grey council flats. A cloudless, shamelessly blue sky. A rusty school fence, someones fresh graffiti declaring love. Pigeons puffing up on telephone wires. The endless grey ribbon of tarmac leading nowhere. It was all the same. And it was unbearable.

—

At three months pregnant, Emily had fallen ill. A sore throat, then fever, body aches. Just the flu, she thought. Then a rash on her backherpes, one doctor said, scribbling heavy antivirals. Another dismissed it: just stress. The rash faded, the storm seemed over.

On her due date, contractions startedweak, false alarms, the midwife said. They tried to stop labour, but it surged anyway. Six hours in, the monitor blared danger. “Hypoxia,” the midwife whispered. A C-section, swift and smooth. A healthy baby girl, pink and wailing, placed briefly in Emilys arms.

Five minutes of joy.

Next time Emily saw her, she was in ICU, tubes snaking from her tiny body, blood at the corner of her mouth. “Pneumonia,” the consultant muttered. “From infected fluid. Likely from your illness.”

Three days later, as Emily pumped colostrum with desperate hope, the consultant entered. “Im so sorry, Emily.”

—

Strangers faces blurred past the car window. The world shouldve held three of them. Now it was back to two. Only now, a chasm lay between.

Relatives muttered about lawsuits, negligence. Emily didnt care. Moving took effort. Breathing took effort. Shed go back to work after New Yearsstaying home surrounded by untouched baby clothes was madness.

They spent Christmas at her parents snowy village. On Christmas Eve, they lit the saunato wash away hospital grime, bad luck. Late that night, Emily sat in the steamy warmth as her mother chattered about old Yuletide divinations.

“Ever tried it? Mirrors, candles waiting to see your future love?”
“God, no.”

Alone afterward, Emily dozed off.

In the dream, she was home. Sunlight spilled into the nursery. The cribthe one she and James had lovingly pickedheld her daughter. Alive. The tiny girl turned, smiled with toothless innocence.

*”Mummy.”*

Not a babys gurgle. Clear, bright speech.

*”Dont cry. Youll be happy. Youll have a daughter. Call her Grace. Ill always be with you.”*

Emily woke gasping, tears hot on her face. The weight on her chest had cracked, just a little.

—

Time did its slow work. Emily boxed up the baby things, kept only a tiny teddy rattle, returned to routine. She laughed at a coworkers joke without guilt. Savoured coffee, sunlight, Jamess arms.

Doctors said wait two years before trying again. But fate had other plans. A year and a half later, she was pregnant. Then came kidney infections, brutal antibiotics. Pressure mounted: *”Youll birth a disabled child! Terminate!”*

The day of her abortion appointment, exhaustion pulled her under. Half-asleep, resignation crept in*theres no choice*when a voice, clear as glass, roared in her ear:

***”DONT YOU DARE!”***

She bolted upright. The room was empty. But the cry lingered.

No more talk of termination. Countless scans, disclaimers signed, relatives shaking heads. Only James stood firm.

Two weeks before birth, a new woman arrived in her ward.

“Im Emily.”
“Grace,” the woman smiled.

Emilys pulse spiked. *Grace*the name from the dream.

“Grace what does it mean?”
“Oh! My mum always said its blessed. Given life. Lovely, isnt it?”

*Blessed. Given life.*

The next day, Emily gave birth. Fast, easy. A healthy girl. Her Grace.

Discharge day. March sun, bold and warm. This time, it didnt hurt her eyes. The babywrapped in a soft blanketfrowned at the light. Emily shielded her, smiled up at the sky, heart singing.

*Thank you, little guardian. Thank you for my Grace.*