The stranger stopped me in the street, and my son swears he had nothing to do with it.
I was walking home from work, exhausted as always, my mind tangled in thoughts of dinner and tomorrow’s meeting. Then I heard a voice behind me:
“Excuse me! Margaret Louise?”
I turned. A young woman stood there, a boy of about six at her side. Her voice wavered, but her gaze was steady.
“My name is Emily,” she said. “And this is your grandson, Oliver. He’s six years old.”
At first, I thought it was some absurd joke. I didn’t recognize her—or the boy. My head spun from the shock.
“I’m sorry, but… you must have the wrong person?” was all I managed.
But Emily pressed on, unfazed.
“No mistake. Your son is Oliver’s father. I stayed silent for years, but I decided you had a right to know. I’m not asking for anything. Here’s my number. Call if you want to meet him.”
And just like that, she walked away, leaving me stunned in the middle of the pavement, clutching a scrap of paper, my fists tightening. I immediately called James—my only son.
“James, have you ever been with a woman named Emily? Do you have a child?”
“Mum, well… briefly. She acted strange, then claimed she was pregnant. I don’t know—maybe she made it up. After that, she vanished. I’m not even sure he’s mine.”
His answer gnawed at me. I’d always trusted James. I’d raised him alone, working two jobs, denying myself everything so he could have a better life. He’d become a respected professional, but he’d never settled down. I’d begged him to think about children, dreamed of being a grandmother. And now—here he was, a grandson appearing out of thin air.
The next day, I called Emily. She didn’t sound surprised.
“Oliver’s six. Born in April. And no, I won’t do any tests. I know who his father is. We split when I was pregnant. I came now because he deserves to know he has a grandmother. You can be part of his life—if you want. If not, I’ll understand.”
I hung up and sat in silence for a long time. On one hand, I couldn’t dismiss my son’s words. On the other—I’d seen something familiar in Oliver’s eyes. His smile. His mannerisms. Or was that just my own longing to believe?
That evening, I stared out the window, memories flooding back—dragging James to nursery, sharing porridge from the same bowl, his first day at school. Could he really have abandoned a child? Or was this boy not his at all?
Even so, warmth flickered in my chest at the thought of Oliver. And guilt, sharp and sour, for doubting. I hadn’t demanded proof when James was born—so why was I asking it of this girl? 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 where we met, I search the crowds. I don’t know if Oliver is my grandson. But I can’t let go of the idea. The dream of being a grandmother won’t die. And maybe—just maybe—I’ll dial that number again. Even if it’s only to meet the boy who called me Gran.
