One autumn evening completely changed my life. I was coming home from work—tired, thinking about errands and tomorrow’s tasks—when someone called my name. I turned around, and there stood a young woman with a boy around six years old. She stepped closer and said calmly, “Margaret Whitmore, my name is Emily, and this is your grandson, Oliver. He’s six now.”
My vision spun. I’d never seen this woman or the child before. I stared at them, wondering if it was some sort of joke, but Emily’s voice held no hint of irony. I glanced around, half-expecting cameras to reveal it was a prank, but no—this was real.
I have one son, James. Handsome, self-assured, with a good position at a large firm in London. I poured everything into him. His father left when James was just two, and ever since, I worked myself to the bone—days at the chemist’s, nights scrubbing offices—just to give him an education, a decent life, a chance to grow into a good man. I didn’t live; I survived. No holidays, plain meals, the same boots for five years. He was my whole world.
Now he’s thirty-two, unmarried, but never short of women. He swaps them like socks. And still, I waited, hoping one day he’d bring someone serious home, give me something to celebrate beyond his career—maybe make me a grandmother.
And then—this. A woman standing there, telling me my grandson was right beside her. “I didn’t want to say anything at first,” Emily said softly, “but Oliver is part of your family. I’m not asking for anything. Here’s my number. If you want to meet him, just call.”
They left, and I stood there under the grey sky, like the ground had vanished beneath me. Back home, I called James immediately. At first, he had no idea what I was talking about, then grudgingly admitted, yeah, he’d dated a girl named Emily years back. Maybe a year—less, even. She’d said she was pregnant, but he hadn’t taken it seriously. Told her the kid could be anyone’s. After that, she disappeared, and he never bothered to look.
Listening to him, my chest ached. He insisted it could still be a lie, that maybe she’d made it all up. But I could still hear Emily’s quiet voice, still see the boy’s face—like I’d known it somewhere before.
I called her. She answered right away, her tone gentle, no demands. Said Oliver was born in April; they’d broken up the autumn before. No paternity test—she knew who the father was. Her family helped, she worked, they were fine. Oliver had just started Year One. “If you want to be part of his life, that’s fine. If not, I understand. I didn’t come to you for money or favours. As a mother, I just thought you had a right to know.”
I hung up, and the silence in the flat swallowed me. A thousand questions buzzed in my head. Is he really my grandson? Do I trust Emily? Or James? And how do I walk away when my heart’s already pulled toward that boy—his eyes, his voice?
Two weeks have passed. Every day, I pick up the slip of paper with her number and hesitate. What if this is my one chance? What if he really is mine? But what if it’s all a lie? I don’t know which scares me more—being fooled or living the rest of my life never knowing the boy who might be my own blood.
