The birth of zara

MARGARET POV

Weeks slipped by like sand through an hourglass, each day a delicate balance between anticipation and trepidation. The air hummed with the promise of change, and I clung to that promise as my due date loomed closer.

My father-in-law, with a weathered camera slung over his shoulder, stood by my side and took pictures when I gave birth. His presence was comforting.

Childbirth, they say, is a dance with pain. But no one truly prepares you for the raw intensity—the way your body clenches and releases, a symphony of agony and ecstasy. I gritted my teeth, my fingers digging into the hospital sheets, and surrendered to the primal rhythm of life.

And then, there she was. My daughter. Zara. A tiny bundle of vulnerability, her eyes wide and curious as if she already knew secrets I had yet to discover. Her cry echoed through the room, a melody of hope and wonder.

How does a woman give birth to twelve children? I wondered, my gaze shifting from Zara to the window where sunlight filtered through. 

I cradled Zara against my chest, her warmth seeping into my bones. She was my twelfth chapter, the final verse in a song of motherhood. And as I whispered her name, I vowed to be her warrior, her guide through this labyrinth of life.

So here I stood, Margaret, with Zara in my arms—a true warrior, a vessel of life. And as my father-in-law captured the fleeting seconds with his camera, I smiled. 

************************************

I cradled there's Zara, her tiny fingers curling around my own, as if seeking solace in this unfamiliar world.

Lewis's father entered, a basket of goodness in his arms. His smile was a beacon, a reminder that life continued beyond the walls of this room. I smiled back, grateful for his presence and for the warmth he brought.

But then Lewis stepped in, and my smile faltered. His name tasted bitter on my tongue, a blend of resentment and longing. We had danced this dance before—the push and pull, the fractured promises. And now, with Zara nestled against my chest, I vowed to shield her from the storm brewing in his eyes.

"Margaret," he called, and the syllables hung heavy in the air. It had been so long since he uttered my name. Too long. I averted my gaze, focusing on the rise and fall of Zara's breath. She was my anchor, my reason for enduring.

"Me, Lewis Connor," I replied, my voice devoid of emotion. I sensed his approach, the soft tread of footsteps. But I drew an invisible line, a boundary he dared not cross.

"Don't come any closer," I warned, my resolve unyielding. "Speak your piece from there."

His voice trembled, a fragile bridge between past and present. "Margaret," he said again, and this time, it cracked. The walls he'd built—the ones that kept us apart—crumbled. I stole a glance at him, my heart betraying me. His eyes held a storm of regret, a tempest of longing.

And then he kneeled, his knees sinking into the sterile linoleum. The world blurred as tears welled in his eyes. He begged, his words a desperate plea for forgiveness. But I had learned the art of survival—the armor of indifference—and I wouldn't yield.

"You think tears will make me forgive you?" I whispered, my fingers tracing Zara's delicate features. "You left scars, Lewis. Deep ones."

His voice wavered. "I was a fool."

"Yes," I agreed. "A fool who shattered trust."

He reached for my hand, and I froze. "Margaret, please."

But forgiveness wasn't a gift I could bestow. Not when the past haunted me and Zara's innocent gaze reminded me of broken promises. I closed my eyes, shutting out his pain and my own heartache.

"Leave," I said, my voice steel.

And so Lewis crawled away. Zara stirred, her tiny mouth seeking nourishment. I held her close, a mother's shield against the world.

************************************

The hospital room became a theater of emotions—a stage where forgiveness and pride grappled for supremacy. Zara slept, her breaths soft as lullabies, while Lewis knelt, a penitent shadow at my bedside.

Days blurred into weeks, and Lewis persisted. His knees bore the weight of remorse, and I, the burden of memories. He wore yesterday's clothes, a testament to his unwavering resolve. Pity should have eluded me, but love—stubborn and unyielding—had other plans.

"Margaret," he'd whisper, and I'd close my eyes, torn between anger and longing. His pleas were like rain on parched earth, seeping into the cracks of my heart. I had vowed never to yield, yet here I was, teetering on the edge of forgiveness.

Call me a fool, but I call it love. One evening, I relented. Perhaps it was exhaustion or the ache of loneliness that swayed me. Lewis cradled Zara, his touch tentative. She stirred, her tiny fingers curling around his, and my heart clenched. He was her father, after all.

I confided in my father-in-law. His eyes held wisdom, a lifetime of choices etched into their depths. "It's your choice," he said.

So I allowed Lewis to hold Zara, my reluctance a thin veil. His tears fell, baptizing her innocence. And as he whispered promises—fragile as spun glass—I wondered if love could mend what betrayal had shattered.

Aaron remained a phantom. His absence gnawed at me, a question mark etched into my soul. Was he too busy?.

************************************

AARON POV 

I've been in country B for business. Rest was a luxury I couldn't afford; my stepbrother's hungry eyes followed my every move.

And then I met her, Dona—who was like a tutor. Her company thrived, a testament to her acumen. But it was her backstory that intrigued me—a marriage dissolved.

Her ex-husband, blind to her brilliance, had cast her aside like a forgotten gem.

She became my mentor, a beacon in the storm. We spoke the language of balance sheets and market trends, but her wisdom transcended spreadsheets. She wasn't in her office, so I had to go to her mansion, which I've never gone to.

**********************************************

The sleek car glided to a stop, its polished exterior reflecting the grandeur of Dona's mansion. My bodyguards fanned out, vigilant, as I stepped out. Adjusting my suit, I signaled for them to standby. This meeting was personal; I needed no entourage.

Alone, I walked through the imposing entrance. The butler, astern figure, greeted me with a nod. We exchanged pleasantries, and he disappeared to announce my arrival. The sitting room awaited—a cavernous space that seemed almost empty. Perhaps minimalism was Dona's style.

My eyes fell on a large family photo frame adorning the wall. Dona stood there, flanked by three younger women. Her daughters, I surmised. And then recognition struck like lightning. One of those faces. Margaret Adrian.

I only knew her by her songs and performances, and I didn't know anything about her family.

"They all look beautiful, don't they?" I heard Dona say, so I turned.

"Margaret Adrian, are your daughters? I asked curiously.

"Good afternoon to you too, Aaron, she said as she walked downstairs to me and reached me.

"I'm sorry, good afternoon, Dona," I said, and she patted my shoulder as she walked past me.

Dona's footsteps echoed as she descended the grand staircase. "Good afternoon, Aaron," she said, brushing past me. "Yes," she continued, her voice softer now. "Margaret is my daughter."

She walks to her garden, and I follow her.

"But I don't know if she still thinks of me as her mother," Dona confessed, her voice a fragile thread. "I didn't approve of the man she wanted to marry, and then she turned her back on me."

Her eyes held a lifetime of longing—a daughter lost, a rift unhealed. The mansion's opulence seemed hollow against the ache in her heart. "I sent gifts and letters," Dona continued, "but not directly to her. I didn't know her new address."

"You were right, Dona," I interjected. "He was not a good choice."

Her gaze sharpened. "How do you know? You don't know the man I speak about, nor do you know Margaret personally."

I hesitated, then revealed to her. "Lewis," I said. "He's been unkind. Margaret bears it quietly. She's in my family's hospital."

Dona's concern flared. "Abuse?"

"No," I assured her. "But she's pregnant. Whether she's given birth, I don't know."

"Pregnant?" Dona's voice rose. "And she never told me... I sent her so many letters, and she could not reply to even one, telling me that she's pregnant."

"She might not have received your letters or gifts," I suggested. "Jessie—now Ariana—interfered. She's no friend; she's a sly witch."

Dona's confusion deepened. "I must fly to country A. Reconnect with Margaret. But it'll take time. I have matters to handle here."

I leaned in. "I wanted your opinion on a business idea. But first, we must see her."

Her gratitude enveloped me. "Thank you, Aaron," Dona whispered. "Without you, I wouldn't have known. I'll join you soon."