**A Child at Forty-Seven?**
“You must be mad to have a baby at your age! You’re forty-seven!” shouted Emily, her closest friend and fellow seamstress.
“What else can I do, Em? The baby’s already on the way,” the expectant mother replied with a guilty shrug.
“There are ways, for goodness’ sake! Pills, the clinic—”
“Em, I won’t kill my child!” interrupted Margaret sharply. “Who knows if I’ll even carry to term? But if it’s God’s will, this baby will be born.”
“Oh, have it your way,” Emily huffed, shaking her head. “Stubborn fool!”
Margaret walked home in a daze. She regretted telling Emily first instead of William, her partner. Yet somehow, her friend’s harsh words only strengthened her resolve. Now, she had to break the news to her mother and her grown son, Edward.
She wasn’t afraid of William’s reaction. He’d longed for a child ever since they’d gotten together.
They’d moved in ten years ago, after Margaret’s divorce from her first husband, Edward’s father. The split had been swift—the judge barely needed to hear her case when Robert stumbled into court drunk. The verdict was immediate: “Clear enough. Petitioner, you’re well rid of this drunkard. No further discussion.”
That same day, Robert vanished from her life, declaring he’d never pay a penny in child support.
Margaret didn’t even bother suing. She was just relieved to be free of the burden she’d once foolishly invited into her life. After the divorce, she swore off men entirely—until William started at the workshop.
He’d pursued her earnestly, if a little clumsily, and she’d liked it. Within a month, they were courting. Soon after, she introduced him to eleven-year-old Edward. The two bonded instantly.
“Uncle William, you should visit us again,” Edward had said.
“I will.”
And he did—bearing gifts and treats for the boy. Before long, he was staying the night. Then, without fanfare, he’d moved in.
“Margaret, love, let’s have a daughter,” he’d asked a year later. At thirty-eight, she’d thought herself too old. Flustered, she’d shrugged—then secretly had an IUD fitted.
Just as they began discussing children in earnest, William’s ex-wife decided on a spa retreat, leaving their daughter, Lily, behind with a cold.
“Could you take her for a few days?” she’d asked Margaret.
She didn’t mind. Lily was a sweet, well-mannered girl. But William’s ex called daily from the spa, and their long conversations made Margaret uneasy. Fearing he might return to his old life, she resolved to give him a daughter of his own.
Yet after removing the IUD, pregnancy eluded her. Tests revealed no issues. The doctor suggested examining William, but he refused.
“I’m not going to any clinic! If it’s not happening, maybe that’s for the best. We’ve got Lily and Edward. Grandchildren will come in time.”
No amount of pleading changed his mind. Then—out of the blue—it happened.
“Six weeks. Everything looks normal. Strong heartbeat…”
“Can I really carry a child at forty-seven?” Margaret asked.
The midwife smiled. “You’re not the first, love. Women do it—birth them, raise them, all of it. But it’s your choice.”
Uncertain, she confided in Emily first. The argument that followed only steeled her resolve.
“No one will talk me out of this now! I’m having this baby!” she thought, hurrying home. She called William, warning him of important news.
“What’s happened?” he asked the moment she stepped inside.
“Not just me. Us. We’re going to be parents.”
“You’re pregnant?”
“Six weeks. I had a scan today.”
“Bloody hell, Margaret! We’re nearly fifty. How will we manage?”
“William! We’ll manage somehow! Couldn’t you at least be happy?”
“I am! I’m thrilled!” he backtracked. “Just—took me by surprise. But you’re right. We’ll manage. I’ve been meaning to set up a workshop in the shed. Extra work, extra income. Now I’ve got a reason.”
“Do it. We’ll need the money.”
Bolstered by his support, she told her mother the next day. Having had Margaret late herself, she’d hoped for understanding. Instead:
“Do you know the risks at your age? The chance of defects is higher. Don’t be foolish. End it now.”
“Mum! Don’t you want another grandchild?”
“At my age? I’ll need a nurse myself soon!”
“You’re fit as a fiddle! Anyone would think you’re younger!”
“Rubbish! Don’t count on me. I raised Edward for you. This one’s on you.”
“I’ve got William!”
“Not legally. Your first husband was ‘got’ too—until he left.”
“That’s not fair! Robert was a drunk. William’s cared for me ten years!”
“Yet he won’t marry you. Why no ring, eh? You told him about the baby—did he propose?”
“…I’m going, Mum.”
“Go on, then. Chase after him! Young mother indeed!”
The exchange left Margaret queasy. At home, dizziness and cramps struck. With William at work, she called an ambulance.
“Your blood pressure’s high. In your condition, hospital’s best,” said the paramedic. She agreed.
Next day, the doctor warned, “If you want to keep this baby, you’ll likely be bedridden most of the term.”
“If I must, I will,” she said firmly.
William vowed to handle everything—even visiting her mother.
“Thank you, love. She’s terrified we’ll forget her.”
“She scared you half to death.”
“Don’t hold it against her. She’s getting on.”
“I’m used to her. She’s a right character.”
“She’s not your mother-in-law. Not yet.”
“That can change. After the birth. We can’t wed now—you’re on bedrest…”
“Was that a proposal?”
“Suppose it was.”
“Then yes!”
“Good. I’ve already told Edward. He’s chuffed—says it’ll be a brother.”
“The little spy! No wonder he didn’t ask why I was hospitalised. I was so worried…”
“Don’t fret. I’ll sort everything. Just rest.”
Weeks in hospital dragged. William visited daily; Edward called (university kept him away). But her mother’s silence stung. Even the news of the baby’s health couldn’t lift the gloom of fractured ties.
At thirty-six weeks, doctors scheduled a cesarean. William’s phone was off. Edward couldn’t reach him either. In desperation, she called Emily.
“Em, I can’t reach William. The surgery’s soon—”
“Don’t panic! I’ll find him!”
The line went dead. Hours passed.
“Maybe she couldn’t find him—or didn’t bother,” Margaret thought bitterly, redialling fruitlessly.
As they wheeled her to surgery, she spotted Emily and William sprinting down the corridor.
“We’re here! His phone died! We’ll wait—don’t worry!” Emily babbled.
Later, the midwife announced, “Congratulations, it’s a boy!”
“What? The scan said a girl!”
“Next time,” the midwife chuckled.
“No next time! A son it is…”
Recovery was swift. Discharge came early. Emily skipped the pickup, but William’s home surprise made up for it: balloons, a freshly decorated nursery, a lavish feast.
“You did all this?”
“Not alone. Emily and her husband helped. They’re bringing your mum.”
Moments later, her mother’s voice rang out: “Where’s my handsome grandson?”
Over dinner, Emily confessed, “I thought our row made you ill! I’ve been wretched! Too ashamed to call.”
After weeks of guilt, she’d approached William. Learning Margaret’s stay would be long, she’d offered, “Let me redo the nursery.”
On surgery day, William’s dead phone delayed them. “When I realised you weren’t angry, I helped him prep this welcome,” Emily said.
“Thank you. I’m so glad we’ve made up. This little one brought us back.”
“Name him to remind us. William, almost—but ‘Peace-William’! A uniter,” her mother suggested.
“Perfect! Em, will you be godmother?”
“I thought you’d never ask!”
Just then, baby Peace-William smiled in his sleep—as if he knew all would be well.
