**Summer Threshold**
Eliza sat by her kitchen window, watching the evening sun glide over the rain-slicked pavement outside. The recent downpour had left smudged streaks on the glass, but she didnt feel like opening itthe flat was thick with warm, dusty air, mingled with echoes of the street outside. At forty-four, she was supposed to be talking about grandchildren, not gearing up for motherhood. Yet here she was, after years of hesitation and stifled hope, finally ready to have that serious talk with her doctor about IVF.
Her husband, William, set a mug of tea on the table and sat beside her. He was used to her measured, deliberate words, the way she chose them carefully to avoid brushing against his unspoken worries. *»Are you really sure?»* hed asked when she first voiced the idea of a late pregnancy. Shed noddednot immediately, but after a pause that held all her past disappointments and unspoken fears. William didnt argue. He just took her hand in silence, and she knewhe was scared too.
Elizas mother lived with thema woman of strict principles, to whom the natural order of things mattered more than personal whims. Over Sunday roast, shed stayed quiet at first, then said, *»At your age, most women wouldnt risk it.»* Those words sat between them like a lead weight, resurfacing in the quiet of the bedroom more than once.
Her sister, calling less often from Manchester, had offered dry support: *»Its your call.»* Only her niece had texted with enthusiasm: *»Auntie Liz, this is amazing! Youre so brave!»* That little burst of warmth did more for Eliza than all the cautious words from the adults.
The first clinic visit was a maze of peeling corridors and the sharp tang of bleach. Summer was just settling in, and the afternoon light was gentle, even in the waiting room of the fertility specialist. The doctor scanned Elizas notes and asked, *»Why now?»* That question kept comingfrom the nurse drawing blood, from an old neighbour on their park bench.
Eliza answered differently each time. Sometimes, *»Because theres still a chance.»* Sometimes just a shrug or an awkward smile. Beneath it all was a long road of quiet loneliness, of convincing herself it wasnt too late. She filled forms, endured extra scansdoctors didnt hide their scepticism. Statistically, her age wasnt on her side.
At home, life trudged on. William stayed close through every appointment, though he was just as nervous. Her mother grew snippy before each check-up, warning against false hopethen brought her sugarless tea or sliced fruit at dinner, her own brand of fretting.
The first weeks of pregnancy passed under a glass bell. Every day was shadowed by the fear of losing this fragile new beginning. The doctor monitored Eliza like a ticking clock: weekly blood tests, ultrasounds in queues full of younger women.
At the clinic, nurses eyes lingered a beat too long on her birth date. Conversations around her veered toward ageonce, a stranger sighed behind her, *»Isnt she terrified?»* Eliza never answered; inside, something like weary stubbornness took root.
Then came the complications. One evening, a sharp pain sent her scrambling for the phone. The maternity ward was stifling even at night, windows cracked just enough to let in mosquitoes. The staff eyed her warilysomewhere, whispers about *»geriatric pregnancy risks»* drifted past.
Doctors spoke in clipped phrases: *»Well monitor,»* *»High-risk cases need extra caution.»* A young midwife once muttered, *»Shouldnt you be retired with a good book?»* before turning away.
Days bled into anxious waits for test results, nights into hushed calls to William and sporadic texts from her sisterhalf advice, half useless reassurance. Her mother visited rarely; seeing her daughter helpless was too much.
Discussions with doctors grew thorniereach new symptom meant more scans or another hospital stay. Once, Williams aunt argued outright about whether Eliza *should* keep the pregnancy. He shut it down with a curt, *»Our choice.»*
Summer baked the wards stale. Beyond the windows, trees rustled in full leaf, childrens laughter drifting up from the hospital gardens. Sometimes Eliza caught herself thinking of younger dayswhen pregnancy hadnt meant fear of complications or sideways glances.
As the due date neared, tension coiled tighter; every kick felt like a tiny miracle or a warning. Her phone never left the bedsideWilliam texted hourly, little anchors of support.
Labour came early, late one evening. The slow wait erupted into medical bustle, then the gut-punch sense of control slipping away. Doctors snapped orders; William paced outside the theatre, praying as desperately as he had before uni exams decades ago.
Eliza barely remembered the birthjust the blur of voices, the chemical sting of antiseptic, a damp mop by the door. The baby was small, whisked off for checks before she could hold him.
When they said hed need the NICU and a ventilator, fear hit like a waveshe barely managed to call William. The night stretched endless; the open window let in warm air thick with summer, but no relief.
Somewhere below, an ambulance wailed. Trees swayed under orange streetlights. In that moment, Eliza admitted to herselfthere was no going back.
Morning brought no respite, just waiting. She woke in the stuffy ward, dawnlight creeping through blinds. Outside, fluff from the park clung to the sill. Footsteps shuffled pasttired, routine. She didnt feel part of it. Her body ached, but her thoughts were fixed on the NICU, where her son breathed through a machine.
William arrived early, voice rough with sleeplessness: *»No change yet.»* Her mother called at sunriseno lectures, just a quiet, *»How are you holding up?»* The honest answer: *Barely.*
Waiting became the days only rhythm. Nurses gave sympathetic glances. William rambled about last summers trip to Cornwall or their nieces school play, but words faltered against the unknown.
At noon, a weary-eyed consultant appeared: *»Stable. Improving But its early days.»* Eliza exhaled for the first time in hours. William straightened; her mother sniffled down the phone.
Suddenly, the family bickering stopped. Her sister sent photos of tiny booties from Manchester; her niece wrote paragraphs of encouragement. Even her mother textedrare for her*»Proud of you.»* The words felt foreign, like they belonged to someone else.
Eliza let herself unclench a fraction. Sunlight striped the ward floor. Around her, people waitedfor scans, for news, for anything. Only here, waiting meant something biggerthreading them together with hope and dread.
William brought fresh clothes and his mums shortbread. They ate in silence, flavour dulled by fear. When the NICU rang, Eliza cradled the phone like it might warm her.
The doctors update was cautious: *»Breathing better on his own.»* William smiledproperly, for the first time in days.
The afternoon passed in calls and half-conversations. The window stayed open, carrying cut grass and the clatter of the canteen below.
Evening brought the consultant again, footsteps echoing first. *»Hes ready to leave intensive care.»* Eliza heard it through waterdisbelief first, then Williams grip crushing her fingers.
A nurse led them to the postnatal unitsterile and sweet with formula. Their son was brought out, free of tubes. Seeing him without wires, Eliza felt happiness and terror twinedwhat if she touched him wrong?
When they placed him in her arms at last, he was impossibly light. His eyes fluttered openexhausted from fighting. William leaned in: *»Look»* His voice shooknot with fear now, but something like wonder.
The nurses smiledno more scepticism. A woman across the ward murmured, *»Youll be alright,»* and for once, it didnt sound hollow.
In the hours that followed, the family drew closer than ever: William held his son against Eliza longer than their wedding kiss; her mother arrived first thing, abandoning her rigid routines to see her daughter at peace; her sister called every half-hour for updatesright down to how long the baby napped between feeds.
Eliza caught herself feeling a strength shed only read about in articles on late motherhood. Now it was realin the brush of her palm over her sons head, in Williams steady gaze between the hospital beds.
Days later, they were allowed into the hospital garden. Sun dappled the paths under the linden trees; younger mothers passed bylaughing, crying, just living, oblivious to the battles fought inside those walls.
Eliza stood by a bench, her son in her arms, leaning into William. This, she realised, was their new anchorfor all three of them, maybe for the whole family. Fear had given way to hard-won joy, loneliness dissolved in shared breath, warmed by the July breeze through the open ward window.
