**Summers Threshold**
Martha sat by her kitchen window, watching the evening sun glide over the damp pavement beyond the yard. The recent rain had left smudged streaks on the glass, but she had no desire to open itthe flat was thick with warm, dusty air, mingled with murmurs from the street. At forty-four, people expected her to speak of grandchildren, not of becoming a mother herself. Yet now, after years of hesitation and quiet longing, she had resolved to speak seriously with a doctor about IVF.
Her husband, William, set a cup of tea on the table and sat beside her. He was accustomed to her measured, deliberate words, how she chose them carefully to avoid stirring his unspoken fears. «Are you truly ready?» he asked when she first voiced her thoughts of a late pregnancy. She noddednot at once, but after a pause that held all her past disappointments and unspoken dread. William did not argue. He took her hand in silence, and she felt ithe was afraid, too.
Marthas mother lived with thema woman of strict principles, for whom the natural order outweighed personal desires. At dinner, her mother said nothing at first, then remarked, «At your age, one doesnt take such risks.» The words hung between them like a weight, returning in the stillness of the bedroom.
Her sister rang less oftenfrom another townand offered only a dry, «Its your decision.» Only her niece sent a message: «Aunt Martha, this is brilliant! Youre so brave!» That brief encouragement warmed her more than any words from the adults.
The first visit to the clinic led her down long corridors with peeling walls and the sharp scent of bleach. Summer was just beginning, and the afternoon light was gentle even as she waited outside the fertility specialists office. The doctor studied Marthas records and asked, «Why now?» The question followed herfrom the nurse drawing blood, from an old acquaintance on a park bench.
Martha answered differently each time. Sometimes she said, «Because theres a chance.» Other times, she merely shrugged or smiled faintly. Beneath her decision lay years of solitude and the struggle to convince herself it wasnt too late. She filled forms, endured testsdoctors did not hide their scepticism, for age rarely favoured success.
At home, life carried on. William stood by her through each procedure, though his nerves were as frayed as hers. Her mother grew irritable before appointments, warning against false hope. Yet at dinner, she sometimes brought Martha fruit or unsweetened teaher own way of showing concern.
The first weeks of pregnancy passed as though under glass. Each day was shadowed by the fear of losing this fragile beginning. The doctor monitored her closely: weekly tests, long waits for scans among younger women.
In the clinic, nurses lingered over her date of birth. Strangers murmured»Isnt she afraid?»but Martha never replied. Inside, something like weary defiance grew.
Complications came without warning. One evening, a sharp pain sent her rushing to hospital. The maternity ward was stifling even at night, the window seldom opened for fear of heat and midges. The staff eyed her warily; whispers of «age-related risks» drifted past.
Doctors spoke plainly: «Well monitor,» «Such cases require caution.» Once, a young midwife muttered, «Shouldnt you be resting with a book?» but quickly turned away.
Days stretched in anxious waiting, nights filled with brief calls to William and terse messages from her sister urging caution. Her mother visited rarelyseeing her daughter helpless was too much.
Discussions with doctors grew harder. Each new symptom meant more tests or another hospital stay. Once, a cousin of Williams questioned whether the pregnancy should continue at all. It ended with his sharp retort: «This is our choice.»
Summer sweltered in the wards; beyond the windows, trees rustled in full leaf, childrens voices rose from the hospital courtyard. Sometimes Martha thought of her own youthwhen bearing a child seemed natural, free of fear or sidelong glances.
As the birth neared, tension mounted. Every movement within her was both miracle and omen. Her phone lay always within reach, William texting encouragement hourly.
Labour began prematurely, late one evening. Calm gave way to urgency, the sense of control slipping. Doctors spoke in clipped tones; William waited outside the theatre, praying as desperately as he had before exams in his youth.
Martha barely remembered the birthonly the clamour around her, the sting of antiseptic, the damp cloth by the door. The boy was fragile; doctors whisked him away without explanation.
When they said he needed ventilation, fear engulfed her so completely she could scarcely call William. The night stretched endless; the open window brought no relief, only the warmth of summer beyond the ward.
Somewhere, an ambulance wailed; beyond the glass, trees blurred under lamplight. In that moment, Martha admitted to herselfthere was no turning back.
Morning brought not relief, but waiting. She woke in the stifling room, a breeze stirring the curtains. Outside, dawn crept in, willowherb seeds clinging to the sill. Footsteps echoed in the corridortired, familiar. Martha felt separate from it all. Her body was weak, but her thoughts were fixed on the boy in intensive care, breathing not on his own, but by machine.
William arrived early. He sat quietly, taking her hand. His voice was rough: «No change yet.» Her mother rang just after sunrise, her question careful: «How are you holding up?» Martha wished to answer truthfully: she was clinging by her fingertips.
Waiting defined the day. Nurses came seldom, their glances brief and pitying. William spoke of simple thingslast summer in the cottage, news of their niece. But conversation faltered; words failed before the unknown.
By noon, the doctor camea man with a neat beard and weary eyes. «Stable,» he said softly. «But its too soon to tell.» For Martha, it was permission to breathe. William straightened in his chair; her mother choked back relief on the phone.
That day, relatives ceased their quarrels. Her sister sent photos of tiny booties; her niece wrote pages of support. Even her mother textedunusually»Im proud of you.» The words felt foreign, as if meant for someone else.
Martha allowed herself to relax slightly. She watched sunlight stripe the wallmorning stretching across the tiles. Around her, others waited too: for results, for doctors, for weather to break. Only here, waiting meant morean invisible thread of fear and hope.
Later, William brought fresh clothes and cake from her mother. They ate in silence, taste dulled by dread. When the call came, Martha cradled the phone as if it could warm her more than blankets.
The doctor spoke cautiously: the boy was breathing a little stronger on his own. It meant so much that even William smiledjust slightlywithout the usual tension.
The day passed between calls and hushed talk with family. The window stayed open; cut grass and the clatter of dishes drifted up from the canteen.
Evening came. This time, the doctors steps preceded his voice. «He can leave intensive care.» Martha heard it as if underwaterdisbelieving at first. William stood abruptly, gripping her hand.
A nurse led them to the postnatal wardsterile, sweet with infant formula. Their son was brought to them, free of tubes at last. Seeing him thus, Martha felt a rush of fragile joy, fear of touching his tiny hand too roughly.
When he was placed in her arms at last, he was impossibly light, eyes barely open from exhaustion. William leaned close: «Look» His voice tremblednot with fear now, but with something like wonder.
The nurses smiledno longer sceptical. Another mother murmured, «Youll be alright,» and for once, it did not sound hollow.
In the hours that followed, the family drew closer than ever: William held the boy longer than hed held anything in their marriage; Marthas mother came at once, forsaking her routines to see her daughter calm for the first time in months; her sister rang every half-hour, hungry for detailshow long he slept, how he breathed between feeds.
Martha recognised a strength shed only read aboutin articles on late motherhood, in therapists offices. Now it filled her trulyin the touch of her sons head, in Williams gaze across the narrow ward.
Days later, they were allowed into the hospital garden. Sunlight dappled the paths under the lindens; younger mothers passed bylaughing, crying, living unaware of the trials within those walls that had once seemed impregnable with fear.
Martha stood by a bench, the boy in her arms, Williams shoulder steady behind her. She felt it thenthis was their new foundation. Fear had given way to hard-won joy; solitude had dissolved into shared breath, warmed by the July wind through an open window.
