In the heart of Maplewood, Ohio, where golden cornfields stretched under a boundless sky, Margaret Thompson knelt in her garden, her hands buried in the rich, loamy soil. At fifty-six, her auburn hair, once vibrant, was now streaked with silver, and her fingers, calloused from decades of planting, ached with each movement. The June sun beat down, warming the rows of lettuce, carrots, and tomato seedlings she tended with devotion.
This garden was her sanctuary, a place where she could escape the weight of life’s trials—lean years when crops failed, winters that drained their savings, and the ache of her daughter’s absence. But today, as she pressed a seedling into the earth, a sharp pain stabbed her lower abdomen. “Oh, Lord, what’s happening to me?” she exclaimed, struggling to straighten her back. Another jolt hit, fiercer, and she cried, “Ouch!” doubling over between the vegetable rows. Her weathered face contorted, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
Margaret was no stranger to hardship. She’d raised Samantha through toddler tantrums and teenage rebellions, nursed Harold through a factory injury, and kept the family afloat when bills piled high. But this pain was alien, terrifying. Clutching her stomach, she steadied herself against a wooden stake, her mind spiraling. “Never had this before. That’s it. I’m dying.” The thought was a cold blade. “And I so want to live, to see my grandchildren!” she whispered, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. She pictured Samantha, now twenty-eight, scraping by in Cleveland, her dreams of stardom reduced to waiting tables. Margaret longed to knit tiny sweaters for Samantha’s future children, to bake cookies and share stories of Maplewood’s simpler days. But now, fear consumed her—would she even survive this moment?
Forcing herself to finish planting, each movement was agony. The garden, once a joy, felt like a battlefield, the soil clinging to her boots like a warning. She trudged home, her steps heavy, her mood darker than the storm clouds gathering over Maplewood. Their clapboard house, painted a fading blue, stood at the town’s edge, its sagging porch adorned with hanging baskets of petunias. As she crossed the threshold, Harold Thompson looked up from his newspaper, his grizzled beard framing a stern expression. A retired mechanic who thrived on routine, Harold was a good man but rigid, his hazel eyes narrowing at her disheveled state. “What’s for lunch?” he asked, his voice sharp, expecting the usual promptness.
“Soup’s in the fridge,” Margaret murmured, her voice barely audible. She sank onto the worn floral couch, its fabric frayed from years of use, and burst into tears. The pain, the dread, the specter of an unknown illness overwhelmed her. Harold, alarmed, dropped his paper and knelt beside her, taking her trembling hand. “Maggie, what’s wrong? Did you lose something?” His gruff tone softened, a rare glimpse of the tenderness buried beneath his stoic exterior.
“I’m dying, Harold, I’m sure of it,” she sobbed, her words choked with fear. “This pain—it’s killing me.”
“What?” Harold’s eyes widened, his weathered face paling. “Where’d you get that idea?”
“The pain in my stomach and back—it’s unbearable. I can hardly walk. It’s probably some deadly, incurable disease,” she stammered, tears soaking her blouse. Harold shook his head, unfazed by her panic. “Nah, Maggie, that can’t be. Remember Susan from church? She had cancer, wasted away to nothing. But you’re getting bigger, like a river in spring flood. How can you be terminally ill?”
Margaret paused, his words cutting through her fog of fear. Susan, their neighbor and fellow choir member, had indeed withered before her diagnosis, her frame skeletal. Margaret, by contrast, had gained weight recently, her dresses straining at the seams, her reflection unfamiliar. “He’s right,” she thought. “I’ve been ballooning lately, no idea why. I’m not a young girl anymore. I’m fifty-six—maybe it’s just age catching up.” The thought calmed her slightly, and the pain seemed to ebb, though doubt lingered like a shadow. She wiped her eyes, her breathing steadying under Harold’s steady gaze.
“You should see Nurse Jenny, though,” Harold added, ever practical. “She might send you to a surgeon in town. Relax, let’s eat.” His no-nonsense tone anchored her, and she nodded, grateful for his grounding presence, though she sensed his worry beneath the bravado.