Back from work one evening, weary and lost in thoughts of supper and tomorrow’s meeting, I was startled by a voice behind me.
“Excuse me! Mrs. Eleanor Whitmore?”
I turned to find a young woman standing there, a boy of about six at her side. Her voice trembled slightly, but her eyes were steady.
“I’m Charlotte,” she said. “And this is your grandson, William. He’s six.”
At first, I thought it a bizarre joke. I didn’t recognize her—nor the boy. My mind reeled from the shock.
“I’m sorry, but… you must be mistaken?” was all I managed.
Yet Charlotte pressed on, unwavering.
“No mistake. Your son is William’s father. I kept quiet for years, but I decided you had a right to know. I’m not asking for anything. Here’s my number. If you’d like to meet him, call.”
With that, she left me standing there, clutching a slip of paper, fists clenched. I stormed home and rang my only son, Edward.
“Edward, did you ever know a woman named Charlotte? Do you have a child?”
“Mum, well… briefly. She acted strangely, then claimed she was expecting. But I don’t know—maybe she made it up. She vanished after that. I can’t be sure he’s mine.”
His answer unsettled me. I’d always trusted him. I’d raised him alone, strict but fair, working two jobs to give him a better life. He’d grown into a respected man, though he’d never settled down. How often I’d pleaded with him to start a family, longing to be a grandmother. And now—here was a grandson, appearing out of nowhere.
The next day, I called Charlotte. She wasn’t surprised.
“William turned six in April. And no, I won’t do any tests. I know who his father is. We split before he was born. I didn’t come sooner because I managed on my own. My parents help. We’re fine. I only came for his sake—he deserves to know he has a grandmother. And you… if you want, you can be part of his life. If not, I’ll understand.”
I hung up and sat in silence. Part of me couldn’t dismiss Edward’s doubts. Yet in William’s face, I’d glimpsed something familiar—a smile, a look, a gesture. Or was it just my longing to have a grandchild?
That night, I stared out the window, remembering Edward’s childhood—dragging him to nursery, sharing porridge from the same bowl, watching him stride off to school. Could he really have abandoned a woman and child? Or was William someone else’s son?
Even so, the thought of him warmed me strangely—and shamed me for doubting. I’d never asked for proof when Edward was born. Why demand it now? Why couldn’t I trust my own heart?
I hadn’t decided. I hadn’t called back. Yet every time I pass that street where we met, I search the crowd. I don’t know if William is my grandson. But I can’t let go of the thought. A grandmother’s hope doesn’t fade so easily. And perhaps, soon, I’ll dial that number—if only to meet the boy who called me “Grandma.”
