“Thanks, Harold. I’ll do it.” The next morning, Margaret walked to Maplewood’s clinic, a modest building with a cheerful mural of sunflowers painted by local teens. Nurse Jennifer Hayes, twenty-nine, with auburn curls and a warm smile, greeted her like family. “Margaret Thompson, hello! It’s been ages. Come in, make yourself at home, and tell me what’s going on.” Jennifer’s kindness was a balm to Margaret’s frayed nerves. The nurse cherished Maplewood’s residents—hardworking, honest folks who shared their joys and sorrows openly. She’d fled a toxic job at a Columbus hospital, where colleagues mocked her inability to have children, and found solace in this town, healing others to mend her own wounds.
Margaret hesitated, then spilled her fears: the stabbing pain, the terror of a fatal illness. Jennifer listened, her green eyes steady, her notepad untouched as she absorbed every word. She’d seen anxious patients before, but Margaret’s distress struck a chord, echoing her own buried grief. “Margaret, let’s not jump to conclusions,” she said gently. “I’ll order some tests. You’ll get them done, and we’ll talk when we have the results. If needed, I’ll prescribe treatment. Deal?”
“Yes, Jenny, you’re a blessing,” Margaret said, her voice thick with gratitude. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
“No thanks yet, Margaret. Just stay well.” Jennifer’s smile hid her pain—a longing for the child she’d never had, a wound from her failed marriage to Brian, who’d left after years of fruitless fertility treatments. The taunts of her old colleagues—“a nurse without kids”—still stung, driving her to Maplewood, where she could rebuild.
Margaret returned home, her steps lighter, though the pain lingered. She threw herself into her routine—tending the garden, baking pies for the church bake sale, and helping organize Maplewood’s annual fair. The town was close-knit, its 2,000 residents bound by shared history. Margaret was a pillar, known for her zucchini bread and her knack for settling disputes at town meetings. But now, she felt fragile, her strength sapped by fear. At the fair, as she manned the pie booth, neighbors noticed her pallor. “You okay, Maggie?” asked Linda Johnson, a longtime friend who’d worked with her at the post office. “Just tired,” Margaret lied, forcing a smile. Linda frowned but didn’t press, handing her a lemonade.
That Saturday morning, Margaret was scrubbing the kitchen floor, the scent of lemon cleaner sharp, when the phone rang. “Margaret Thompson, it’s Jennifer. Your test results are in. Can you come by today?” The nurse’s voice was calm, but a tremor betrayed unease.
“Yes, Jenny, of course,” Margaret replied, her heart pounding. She sensed trouble, and Jennifer’s hesitation only deepened her dread. At the clinic, she barely sat before blurting, “What’s wrong with me, Jenny? Am I dying?”
“No, Margaret, goodness, no, you’re…” Jennifer faltered, then rushed out, “pregnant.” The word was a thunderclap, impossible. Margaret sank into the chair, her face frozen in shock, as if turned to stone.
Seconds ticked by before the meaning sank in. “What?” she gasped, her eyes wide with horror. “That’s a lie!” Her scream startled Jennifer, who flinched, knocking a pen off her desk.
Then clarity struck. “They mixed up my tests. I can’t be pregnant at fifty-six. No way.” Her voice rose, desperate. “This is nonsense, Jenny. Check again. There’s a mistake.”
Jennifer shook her head, her expression firm but kind. “Margaret, there’s no mistake. These are your results. Yes, it’s rare to conceive at your age. It’s a one-in-a-million case, and it’s yours. You need to stay calm and not panic.”
Margaret’s hands and feet went cold. Fury surged, aimed at fate, at God, at her own body. “Calm? Are you serious? I don’t want this pregnancy, not at all. If I’m pregnant, get rid of it now. I’m done having kids.” Her voice cracked, raw with fear and defiance.
Jennifer struggled under the onslaught but held firm. “It’s too late for an abortion. You’re almost four months along. And that’s not all—you’re carrying twins.” The words were a sledgehammer. Margaret slumped, her arms limp, her gaze fixed on a crack in the wall.
Silence enveloped her, disbelief a heavy fog. Jennifer, alarmed, fetched water. “It’ll be okay. We’ll monitor the pregnancy.” Her voice was steady, but inside, she reeled. A woman her mother’s age, pregnant with twins—it was unprecedented in her career. She thought of her own empty womb, the irony piercing. “Can I help with anything else?” she asked as Margaret stirred.
“No,” Margaret said, her voice hollow. She shuffled to the door, the weight of this calamity crushing her. Jennifer watched, her mind drifting to her own losses. For her, a pregnancy would be a miracle, not a curse. She remembered Brian, their endless doctor visits, the hope that died with each negative test. Her colleagues’ cruelty had driven her to Maplewood, where no one knew her pain. Margaret’s news reopened that wound, raw and aching.
Margaret saw her pregnancy as divine punishment, a curse for unknown sins. She and Harold had lived honestly, raising Samantha with love, though their daughter’s rebellion tested them. Samantha had fled Maplewood’s confines, chasing stardom in Cleveland, only to find dead ends. She worked as a waitress, her dreams of acting buried under long shifts and meager tips. She’d married a charming drifter who left her after six months, leaving her to scrape by. Yet she refused to return, accepting her parents’ money but not their advice. Margaret never complained, accepting life’s blows. But this was too much.
She wandered Maplewood’s streets, her gait heavy, waddling like a duck. Her body felt foreign, her life a reel of memories—her wedding to Harold under the town’s oak tree, Samantha’s first steps in the backyard, the lean years when they nearly lost the house. Neighbors’ greetings—“Good health, Maggie!”—jarred her back. She imagined their voices turning cruel, mocking her for daring to have children at her age. “What a fool, what a disgrace!” The thought chilled her. She couldn’t face their judgment, nor Harold’s disapproval. His love for order would crumble under this chaos.
Harold, too, grappled with the news. In their kitchen, as Margaret confessed her pregnancy, he sat stunned, his coffee growing cold. He’d dreamed of a quiet retirement—fishing at Maple Creek, tinkering in his garage, maybe a road trip to the Grand Canyon. Diapers and midnight cries weren’t part of that vision. But as Margaret sobbed, he saw her fear, her fragility. “I can’t lose her,” he thought, his heart clenching. He remembered their early years—dancing at the county fair, saving for their first car, weathering Samantha’s teenage storms. He’d rarely told Margaret he loved her, assuming she knew. Now, he regretted his silence.