The Height of Summer
Emily sat by her kitchen window, watching the evening sun glide over the wet pavement outside. The rain had left smudges on the glass, but she didnt open itthe flat was warm and stuffy, filled with the dusty air and faint echoes of the street. At forty-four, people usually asked about grandchildren, not about trying to become a mother. But now, after years of doubt and quiet hope, Emily had finally decided to speak seriously with a doctor about IVF.
Her husband, James, set a cup of tea on the table and sat beside her. He was used to her careful, measured words, the way she chose them so as not to brush against his own unspoken fears. “Are you really ready?” he asked when she first voiced the idea of a late pregnancy. She noddednot right away, but after a pause that held all her past disappointments and unspoken dread. James didnt argue. He just took her hand silently, and she felt ithe was afraid too.
Emilys mother lived with them, a woman of strict routines for whom the natural order of things outweighed personal desires. At dinner, her mother stayed quiet at first, then said, “At your age, people dont take risks like this.” The words hung between them like a weight, returning in the quiet of the bedroom later.
Her sister, calling from another city, offered dry support: “Its your decision.” Only her niece messaged with real warmth: “Aunt Em, thats amazing! Youre so brave!” That little burst of enthusiasm warmed Emily more than anything the adults had said.
The first hospital visit was all peeling walls and the sharp tang of disinfectant. Summer was just settling in, and the afternoon light was soft even in the waiting room of the fertility specialist. The doctor studied Emilys notes and asked, “Why now?” That question came up oftenfrom the nurse taking blood, from an old friend on the park bench.
Emily answered differently each time. Sometimes she said, “Because theres still a chance.” Sometimes she just shrugged or smiled vaguely. Beneath it all was a long road of loneliness and convincing herself it wasnt too late. She filled out forms, endured extra testsdoctors didnt hide their scepticism. Her age rarely came with good odds.
At home, life carried on. James stayed close through every step, though he was just as nervous. Her mother grew prickly before appointments, warning against false hope, but sometimes brought her fruit or unsweetened tea at dinnerher own way of showing worry.
The first weeks of pregnancy felt like living under glass. Every day was shadowed by the fear of losing this fragile new beginning. The doctor monitored Emily closelyweekly tests, long waits for scans among younger women.
At the clinic, nurses eyes lingered on her birth date a second too long. Conversations around her strayed to age: once, a stranger sighed behind her, “Isnt she scared?” Emily didnt answer. Inside, something like weary stubbornness grew.
Complications came without warning. One evening, sharp pain sent her calling an ambulance. The maternity ward was stifling even at night, the window seldom opened for fear of heat and midges. Staff eyed her warilynow and then, whispers about “high-risk due to age” slipped out.
Doctors were blunt: “Well monitor,” “These cases need extra care.” Once, a young midwife muttered, “Should be putting your feet up with a book,” then turned away quickly.
Days dragged in anxious waits for test results; nights were broken by short calls to James and rare texts from her sister urging caution. Her mother visited sparinglyseeing her daughter helpless was too much.
Discussions with doctors grew harder: each new symptom meant more scans or another hospital stay. Once, Jamess aunt argued over whether to continue the pregnancy at all. It ended with his sharp, “This is our choice.”
Summer filled the wards with sticky heat; outside, trees rustled in full leaf, childrens voices floated up from the hospital garden. Sometimes Emily caught herself thinking of years when shed been younger than these women around herwhen expecting a child felt natural, unshadowed by fear or sideways glances.
As the due date neared, tension tightened. Every kick was a small miracle or a harbinger of disaster. Her phone stayed close, James texting encouragement nearly every hour.
Labour started early, late at night. The slow wait became a rush of medics and the creeping sense things were slipping out of control. Doctors spoke fast and clear; James waited outside the theatre, praying as desperately as he had before exams in his youth.
Emily barely remembered her sons birthjust the blur of voices, the sting of antiseptic and damp mop-water by the door. The baby was weak; they whisked him off for checks without explanation.
When they said hed need neonatal intensive care, hooked to a ventilator, fear hit Emily so hard she could barely call James. The night stretched endlessly; the window stood wide open, warm air a cruel reminder of summer just beyond the ward.
Somewhere below, an ambulance wailed; beyond the glass, trees blurred under park lamps. In that moment, Emily let herself admitthere was no going back.
Morning brought no relief, only waiting. She woke in the stuffy ward, a breeze stirring the curtains. Outside, light crept between branches, carrying fluff that stuck to the sill. Footsteps passed in the halltired, familiar. Emily didnt feel part of it. Her body ached, but her thoughts were fixed on her son, breathing by machine just down the corridor.
James arrived early. He took her hand gently, voice rough with sleeplessness: “Doctors say no change yet.” Her mother called at dawn, no reproach in her voice, just a careful, “How are you holding up?” The honest answer: barely.
Waiting became the days only rhythm. Nurses came seldom, their glances brief and pitying. James talked of small thingslast summers holiday, news from their niecebut words trailed off into the unknown.
By noon, a doctor camea man with a neat beard and weary eyes. He spoke quietly: “Stable condition, slight improvement Too soon to tell.” Emily drew her first deep breath in days. James straightened; her mother sniffled down the phone.
That day, the family stopped arguing. Her sister sent photos of tiny booties; her niece wrote a long, cheering message. Even her mother texted, rare for her: “Proud of you.” The words felt strange at first, as if meant for someone else.
Emily let herself relax a little. She watched sunlight stripe the ward floormorning stretching toward the door. Around her, others waited too: for test results, for doctor visits, chatting about heatwaves or hospital meals. But here, waiting meant moreit bound them all with threads of fear and hope.
Later, James brought fresh clothes and his mothers homemade scones. They ate in silence, taste dulled by worry. When the neonatal unit called, Emily cradled the phone like it might warm her better than blankets.
The doctors update was cautious: gradual progress, the baby breathing a little more on his own. It meant so much James managed a small, unguarded smile.
The day passed in calls and hushed family talks. The window stayed open; cut grass and the clatter of trays drifted up from downstairs.
Evening came. This time, the doctor arrived late, footsteps echoing before his voice. He said simply, “Hes ready to leave intensive care.” Emily heard it as if underwaterdisbelieving at first; James stood so fast he nearly crushed her fingers.
A nurse led them to the postnatal wardsterile and sweet with the scent of formula. Their son was brought out, free of tubes and tape, breathing alone now.
Seeing him like that, Emily felt fragile happiness mixed with terror of touching his tiny hand too roughly.
When they placed him in her arms at last, he was impossibly light for something so alive, eyes half-shut with exhaustion. James leaned close: “Look” His voice tremblednot with fear now, but something like wonder, mixed with a grown mans awe at the sheer fact of life.
The nurses smiled warmly now, their earlier scepticism gone. Another mother murmured, “Youll be alright,” and for once, it didnt sound empty.
In the hours that followed, the family drew closer than ever: James held his son against Emilys chest longer than hed held anything in their marriage; her mother arrived on the first bus, abandoning her rigid routines just to see her daughter calm at last; her sister called every half-hour for updatesdown to how long the baby napped between feeds.
Emily 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 Jamess gaze across the narrow gap between beds.
Days later, they were allowed into the hospital garden. Shaded paths lay under midday sun; younger mothers passed bylaughing, crying, simply living, unaware of the trials inside those walls that had once seemed like fortresses against hope.
Emily stood by a bench, her son in her arms, leaning into Jamess shoulder. She felt it thenthis was their new foundation, for the three of them, maybe for all of them. Fear had given way to hard-won joy; loneliness dissolved in shared breath, warmed by July wind through an open hospital window.
