**Diary Entry**
It was a late winter evening. My husband had gone to his night shift, leaving just me and our two-year-old, Oliver, at home. I’d been trying to put the little one to bed, but he was being stubborn. Exhausted from pleading, I decided to give him a few more minutes to play while I stepped out to the kitchen—just to make a quick cup of tea.
I hadn’t even taken a cup from the cupboard when I heard Oliver crying from the other room. My breath caught. Rushing back, I found him standing in the middle of the room, wailing between harsh coughs.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Where does it hurt?” I dropped to my knees, heart pounding, but he only cried harder, his tiny body trembling. Then it hit me—he must have swallowed something. I tried to open his mouth, but he clenched his jaw, his cries growing louder.
I don’t know how long I begged, scolded, or panicked. At twenty, I was barely more than a child myself, utterly out of my depth. And then—his breathing turned ragged. Time was slipping away. My fingers numb with fear, I grabbed the phone and dialled 999. But nothing. No dial tone, no response—just silence. Dead silence. I tried again. And again. Nothing.
Mobiles were a luxury back then, something our young family couldn’t afford. Helpless, I clutched Oliver to me, sobbing into his hair. The only words my mind could form were, *God, please, help me.* I wasn’t religious—been christened as a baby, but the only time I’d set foot in a church was as a little girl with my gran. Yet there I was, talking to God like He was right there in the room, begging Him to save my boy.
And then—the doorbell rang.
Hope surged—maybe my husband had come home early. But when I flung the door open, a stranger stood there, a man in his mid-thirties.
“You alright, love?” he started, then faltered at the sight of my tear-streaked face.
I didn’t even invite him in. Words spilled out about Oliver, the choking, the phone. He listened for barely a moment before stepping past me, kicking off his shoes, and striding into the living room.
I stared, bewildered, but he seemed to know exactly what to do. Kneeling in front of Oliver, he calmed him in seconds. Just like that, the coughing stopped. Then the man turned, holding out a small, black bead in his palm.
“This was it.”
Of course. My favourite necklace had snapped days before. I’d thought I’d picked up every piece—but one must have rolled away.
You might wonder—did he vanish? Turn into a creature and scurry under the sofa? No. James, as it turned out, was as ordinary as they come—an A&E doctor. That evening, his car, usually reliable, had stalled right outside our building. With no mobile, he’d knocked on the nearest door to use the phone. Our flat, ground floor, facing the stairs—just chance.
He never did make that call, by the way. The landlines were down all over—some fault with the exchange. But when he left, after I’d finally talked him into staying for tea, his car started on the first try.
Call it luck. Call it a miracle. Whatever it was, I go to church every Sunday now. And I never forget to light a candle for James.