“Mum, stop lecturing me. Mark and I planned to have a baby in, like, three years… *Minimum* three! We’ve got a million things on—projects, plans, a holiday in Majorca, for heaven’s sake. A baby now? Seriously, Mum?!” The irritation in her daughter’s voice was so sharp that Margaret Winthrop decided to drop the subject.
Young, beautiful, ambitious, ready to take on the world—until an unplanned pregnancy flipped the script.
“Darling, just… promise me you won’t do anything drastic till we’ve been to Willowbrook,” her mother murmured.
***
For as long as Emily could remember, they’d celebrated her mum’s birthday in Willowbrook, though she’d never understood the appeal—quiet family dinners by candlelight, followed by a morning visit to the village chapel.
“Dad, why do we *always* go to Willowbrook for Mum’s birthday? It’s deadly dull!”
“Without Willowbrook, there’d be no you, no your mum… maybe even no me. Got it?”
“Got it,” Emily muttered, though she didn’t, not really.
This year, though, her father was gone—heart attack. Watching her mum weep day after day, barely leaving her room, Emily was the one who suggested a weekend trip to Willowbrook.
“Sweetheart, I thought you hated it there.”
“I love *you*, Mum… Just us, though. Mark can’t get time off work.”
***
The oppressive heat had lifted, leaving something magical in the air. Margaret stepped onto the cottage porch, breathing in the heady scent of cut grass and wild strawberries.
“Wish Charles could see this…”
“Mum, remember that birthday cake Dad and I made? Flour *everywhere*—kitchen, porch, even the garden shed. You didn’t even scold us, just laughed and said it looked like a Christmas blizzard,” Emily grinned, draping a quilt over her mother’s shoulders.
“Love, there’s something I need to tell you. About… your situation.”
“Ugh, *here we go*,” Emily sighed, rolling her eyes. “Mum, don’t start. Mark and I have made our choice. Freedom, remember?”
“Just… let me speak, darling.” Margaret’s throat tightened, her vision blurring. “You know you were a late baby. The doctors said I’d never survive labour. One hundred percent.”
“Oh, Mum…” Emily hugged her tightly, feeling her tremble.
“Let me finish. When Charles found out I was pregnant, he was beside himself—started smoking again. He wanted children desperately, but he loved me more than life. Said he couldn’t go on without me. Back then, my friend Rebecca invited us to Willowbrook. I went to say my goodbyes. And to… prepare your father. I’d already decided—you’d live in this world instead of me.”
“You… for *me*?” Emily’s breath hitched, fighting tears.
“I’d made my choice, but I didn’t know how to tell Charles. Started visiting the chapel, praying to St. Brigid for guidance. One evening, walking back, I saw the neighbours’ barn on fire. A dog dashed inside, came out with a puppy in her mouth, dropped it, and ran back in. The roof collapsed. She emerged with another puppy, her fur singed, blisters over her eyes. She nuzzled them, counting—then charged *back* into the flames. Five minutes later, she dragged out a third pup, laid it at my feet, licked the tears off my cheek… and went still.”
“Charles found me sobbing, clutching those puppies. He never asked again. Just… his eyes were red every day till you were born. You arrived right on time, perfectly healthy. The doctors called it a miracle.” Margaret’s face softened, her worry lines vanishing.
“Mum, why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“Suppose… the time wasn’t right.”
***
A year later, Emily and Mark gifted Margaret a cottage in Willowbrook. Sitting on the porch, Emily cradled her newborn son.
“Mum, this is our best project yet. Our happiness. I can’t believe I almost threw it away for some… silly idea of freedom.”
Margaret smiled faintly and whispered to no one:
“We didn’t waste our time on this earth, did we?”
