It was another draining day at work. My mind was tangled in thoughts of dinner and tomorrow’s meeting when a voice cut through the noise behind me.
“Excuse me—Margaret?”
I turned. A young woman stood there, a boy of about six at her side. Her voice wavered, but her gaze never faltered.
“My name is Emily,” she said. “And this is your grandson, Oliver. He’s six.”
At first, I thought it was some absurd prank. I didn’t recognize her—or the child. My pulse thundered in my ears.
“I’m sorry, but… you must be mistaken?”
Emily didn’t hesitate. “No. Your son is Oliver’s father. I kept quiet for years, but you deserve to know. I don’t want anything from you. Here’s my number. If you ever want to meet him—call.”
And just like that, she was gone. I stood frozen on the pavement, crumpling the scrap of paper in my fist. I called my son, James, immediately.
“Mum, what—? Yeah, I knew an Emily. Briefly. She acted… odd. Claimed she was pregnant, then vanished. I don’t even know if it’s mine.”
His words gnawed at me. I’d raised James alone, working double shifts, denying myself everything so he could have a better life. He was respected at his firm, successful—but no family of his own. I’d begged him for grandchildren, dreamed of holding a little one again. And now this—a boy appearing out of nowhere.
Two days later, I called Emily. She didn’t sound surprised.
“Oliver was born in April. No, I won’t do a DNA test. I know who his father is. I left when I was pregnant because—well, it doesn’t matter. My parents help. We’re fine. I only reached out because he has a right to know you. The choice is yours.”
I hung up, the silence pressing in. Part of me couldn’t ignore James’s doubt. Yet in Oliver’s smile, his mannerisms—there was something familiar. A flicker of recognition. Or was I just desperate for it to be true?
That night, I stared out the window, remembering James as a child—his tiny hand in mine, his first day of school. Could he really have abandoned a woman and child? Or was that boy a stranger?
Even so, the thought of Oliver warmed me in a way I couldn’t explain. And that, more than anything, stung. Why did I demand proof from Emily when no one had doubted me as a mother? Why couldn’t I just trust my heart?
I haven’t decided yet. I haven’t called back. But every time I pass that street, I scan the crowds. I don’t know if Oliver is truly my grandson. But I can’t let go of the idea, either. That hope—it lingers. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll dial that number again. If only to meet the boy who called me Grandma.
