**A Child at Forty-Seven?**
“You’ve lost your mind, having a baby at your age! You’re forty-seven!” shouted Emily, her best friend and co-worker at the factory.
“But what else can I do, Val? The baby’s already on the way,” muttered Natalie, guiltily shrugging her shoulders.
“There’s always a choice, Nat! You sound like some old biddy from a Victorian village. There are options—pills, procedures…”
“Val, I won’t kill my child!” Natalie cut her off sharply. “God knows if I’ll even carry to term. But if it’s His will, this baby will be born.”
“Fine, have it your way,” Val huffed, shaking her head. “You’re being daft.”
Natalie walked home in a daze, torn between regret for confiding in Val before telling her partner, James, and quiet resolve. Oddly enough, Val’s harsh words had only strengthened her decision. Now, she had to break the news to her elderly mother and grown son, Oliver.
She wasn’t afraid of James’s reaction. He’d longed for a child ever since they got together.
They’d moved in together a decade ago, after Natalie divorced Oliver’s father, Robert. The split had been quick—Robert had stumbled into court drunk, and the judge barely needed to hear Natalie’s side before ruling in her favor. “No contest. Divorce granted,” the magistrate said dryly.
Robert vanished from her life that same day, snarling that he wouldn’t pay a penny in child support.
Natalie didn’t bother pursuing him. She was just relieved to be free of the dead weight she’d foolishly let into her life. After the divorce, she swore off men for good—no matter what.
Then James arrived at the factory. He courted her with rough-around-the-edges charm, and she fell for it. Within a month, they were dating. Another month later, she introduced him to eleven-year-old Oliver. They bonded instantly.
“Uncle James, you should come over again,” Oliver had said.
“Course I will.”
And he did—bearing gifts, treats, and soon enough, staying the night. Before she knew it, he’d moved in.
“Nat, love, let’s have a little girl,” James murmured a year later. At thirty-eight, Natalie thought she was too old. Flustered, she shrugged—then secretly had an IUD fitted.
Around the time they began discussing children, James’s ex-wife went to a spa retreat, leaving their daughter, Lily, behind because she’d caught a cold.
“Take Lily for a few days, would you?” the ex asked.
Natalie didn’t mind. Lily was sweet and well-behaved. But then James’s ex started calling daily from the spa, and Natalie grew uneasy. It felt like old flames were flickering back to life. Terrified of losing him, she resolved to give him the daughter he wanted—so he’d never return to his ex.
After removing the IUD, pregnancy didn’t come easily. Tests revealed no issues, but James refused to be checked.
“I’m not going to any clinic! If it’s not happening, maybe it’s for the best. We’ve got Oliver and Lily. We’ll wait for grandkids.”
No amount of pleading changed his mind. Natalie gave up. Then—surprise.
*”Six weeks. Pregnancy progressing normally. Strong heartbeat…”*
“How will I carry a baby at forty-seven?” Natalie asked the doctor.
The seasoned obstetrician smiled. “Women do it all the time. They carry, deliver, raise them just fine. But it’s your choice.”
Uncertain, she told Val first. The argument that followed only steeled her resolve.
*”No. No one’s changing my mind now! I’m having this baby!”*
She called James on her way home, warning him they needed to talk.
“What’s happened?” he asked the moment she walked in.
“Not just me. Us. We’re going to be parents.”
“You’re pregnant?”
“Six weeks. Had a scan today.”
“Bloody hell, Nat! We’re pushing fifty. How are we supposed to raise a kid?”
“James! However we bloody well can!” Her voice cracked. “A little support would be nice!”
“I’m not against it!” He caught himself. “I’m chuffed, love. Just… panicked. But you’re right. We’ll manage. Been meaning to set up a workshop in the shed—take on extra jobs. Now I’ve got a reason.”
“Good. We’ll need the money.”
Bolstered by his support, Natalie told her mother the next day. Her mum had been nearly forty when she had Natalie, so surely she’d understand.
But her mother recoiled. “Do you even know the risks at your age? The chances of complications—of a disabled child? Don’t be a fool. End it now.”
“Mum! Wouldn’t you love another grandchild?”
“I’m too old to play nanny! I’ll need care myself soon!”
“You’re fit as a fiddle! People half your age wish they had your health!”
“Don’t be daft! Count me out. I raised Oliver for you. This one’s on you.”
“I’ve got James!”
“Oh, the *live-in boyfriend*,” her mother sneered. “Had a husband last time, too. Where’s he now?”
“That’s not fair! Robert was a drunk, a thief! James has supported us for ten years!”
“Then why hasn’t he married you? You tell him about the baby—did he propose? No. Be grateful he hasn’t packed his bags.”
“…Right. I’m going. Best check if James *has* packed,” Natalie snapped, storming out.
The argument left her nauseous. At home, dizziness hit, then a sharp pain. James was at work—she called an ambulance without hesitation.
“Your blood pressure’s sky-high. Pregnant, you said? You need hospital,” the paramedic urged. She agreed.
Next day, the consultant was blunt. “If you want to keep this baby, you’ll likely be bedridden till delivery.”
“Then I’ll stay.”
James promised to handle everything—even checking on her mother.
“Thanks, love,” Natalie said weakly. “Mum’s terrified she’ll be forgotten because of the baby.”
“Scared you half to death, more like.”
“Don’t hold it against her. She’s getting on.”
“I’m used to her. She’s a right piece of work, your mum.”
“She’s not *technically* your mother-in-law,” Natalie mumbled.
“That can change. Once the baby’s here. No registry office visits now—you’re on bed rest…”
“Was that a proposal?”
“Suppose it was.”
“Then yes!”
“Good. Already told Oliver we’re getting hitched. Oh—and he’s thrilled. Says it’s definitely a boy.”
“That little sneak! No wonder he didn’t ask why I’m in hospital. But… I’m glad he’s happy.”
“Stop worrying. I’ve got it sorted. Just rest.”
Weeks dragged by in the hospital. James visited daily; Oliver called (he was finishing uni, too busy to visit). But silence from her mother and Val gnawed at her—even the news of the baby’s perfect health couldn’t lift the gloom.
At thirty-six weeks, doctors scheduled a C-section. James wasn’t answering his phone. Oliver couldn’t reach him either. In desperation, Natalie called Val.
“Val? I—I can’t reach James. The surgery’s today…”
“Nat, don’t fret. I’ll find him. I’ll call back!”
The line went dead. Hours passed.
*”She couldn’t find him. Or she didn’t even try,”* Natalie thought bitterly, redialing James again and again.
As they wheeled her to theatre, the doors burst open—Val and James, breathless.
“Nat! His phone died! I drove him. We’re here!” Val babbled.
Later, the midwife beamed. “Congratulations, it’s a boy!”
“What? The scan said girl!”
“Next time,” the midwife chuckled.
“Oh, there *won’t* be a next time! But a son… a son’s wonderful.”
Recovery was swift. Val skipped her discharge, but James arrived with a surprise—their home decked in balloons, a freshly painted nursery, a feast in the dining room.
“James! Did you do all this?”
“Not just me. Val and her husband helped. They’re bringing your mum.”
Minutes later, her mother’s voice rang out: “Where’s my gorgeous grandson?”
Over dinner, Val confessed she’d been wracked with guilt. *”I thought my words made you ill! I wanted to call, but I was ashamed.”*
After weeks of torment, she’d approached James—offering to renovate the nursery as penance. On surgery day
