They agreed not to tell Samantha yet, needing time to process. In the weeks that followed, they found solace in Maplewood’s church, its white steeple a beacon. Kneeling together, they prayed for strength, for the twins, for each other. Margaret’s fear softened, replaced by a tentative wonder. If God had given them this miracle, perhaps it was meant to be. Harold, grumbling about the upheaval, began to see it as a gift, though he hid his hope behind a scowl. They savored each day, counting down to the twins’ arrival.
Margaret’s pregnancy was grueling. Her legs swelled, her back ached, and nausea plagued her. She tired easily, her garden neglected, her church duties scaled back. Yet ultrasounds showed two healthy girls, their tiny hearts beating strong. Margaret clung to that, enduring every discomfort for their sake. Harold hovered, fetching ice packs, cooking simple meals, his gruff care a silent vow. At night, they lay awake, whispering about names—Margaret for her, Victoria for Harold’s mother. The future, once bleak, glimmered with possibility.
But trouble loomed from their daughter, Samantha. They’d delayed telling her, fearing her volatile nature. Samantha was a wildfire, burning through life with fierce independence but little regard for others. Her rare calls were breezy, her visits—maybe twice a year—brief and self-serving. When she announced a surprise visit, Margaret’s nerves frayed. “Mom, can I come over today?” Samantha chirped, unaware of the storm awaiting.
“Of course, honey,” Margaret replied, her hands shaking. The twins kicked, sensing her anxiety. That evening, as the sun dipped, Samantha’s red pickup rattled into the driveway. “Hey, Dad, I’m here for a bit. Need your help!” she said, pecking Harold’s cheek. Her casual air vanished when she saw Margaret, her belly unmistakable.
“What’s this?” Samantha’s voice was a whip. “You’re pregnant? You’re too old for this, Mom. Have you lost it?” Her face twisted, her blue eyes cold.
“Don’t talk to your mother like that!” Harold snapped, stepping forward. “You too?” Samantha turned on him. “You should be planning retirement, not playing house with babies.”
Her words cut deep, each a betrayal. Margaret’s heart broke, Harold’s anger flared. “We raised a viper,” he thought. “How did our sweet girl become this?” Samantha’s tirade escalated, her voice shrill. “Thought about the future? You’re old. Who’ll raise these kids when you’re gone? Don’t expect me to do it. I’ve got my own life to fix.”
Margaret’s vision blurred with tears. “Did I fail her so badly?” she wondered. Samantha’s cruelty was a wound, raw and bleeding. As Margaret tried to respond, nausea surged, followed by searing pain in her abdomen. She screamed, clutching the wall, and slid to the floor.
Harold rushed to her. “Maggie, what’s wrong?” His voice trembled.
“Harold, I’m bad. Call an ambulance.” Her face was ashen, her breath ragged.
“But it’s not time!” he stammered, panic rising.
“Call!” she gasped, another scream tearing through her. Her eyes rolled back, and she went limp. Harold’s hands shook as he dialed 911, tears streaming. “Hang on, Maggie. Help’s coming.”
The ambulance screeched to a halt, and paramedics loaded Margaret onto a stretcher. The hour-long drive to the city hospital was a blur of sirens and fear. In the maternity ward, Margaret, fading, whispered to Harold, “Goodbye, Harold. Take care of the girls. Don’t abandon them.”
“And you?” he choked, his heart breaking.
“I probably won’t make it,” she murmured, her strength gone. The operating room doors swung shut, leaving Harold alone, consumed by dread. He knew the twins would be premature, likely frail. Margaret’s last words haunted him, her fear mirroring his own.