Once, a woman named Elizabeth dreamed of having a daughter. But fate, with its usual sense of irony, gave her a son instead. And there she was, dabbing her eyes at his wedding, though no one noticed her quiet tears in the corner of the grand hall.
The celebration for Edward and Beatrice was lively—glasses clinking, laughter ringing, guests toasting the happy couple. But Elizabeth, the groom’s mother, wasn’t crying from joy. Her heart ached with loneliness, a feeling she feared would now be her constant companion.
Years ago, her own mother had warned her: “Have a son, and you’ll end up alone. Try for another—maybe you’ll get a girl. A daughter stays with her mother; a son belongs to his wife.” At the time, Elizabeth brushed it off. Life was long, she thought. Plenty of time.
She’d imagined a little girl—round cheeks to wash in the mornings, curls to braid, bows to tie. She’d even picked a name: Charlotte. Pink baby blankets were bought, hand-me-downs saved, just in case.
But then came Edward. No Charlotte in sight. Still, he was such a sweet, curly-haired boy that she’d often look at him and think, *Well, almost like a girl…*
For a while, strangers mistook him for one. Then he grew up—taller, broader, undeniably a man. Kind-hearted, though, just as he’d always been. She was proud. Yet somewhere inside, a quiet regret lingered. *What if I’d had that little girl?*
When Edward brought Beatrice home, Elizabeth knew instantly. The way they laughed, the way their hands lingered—real love, the kind that changes everything. She’d meant to say something important that day, but all that came out was, “Don’t stay out too late.”
Edward nodded, but his eyes told the truth—he wasn’t a boy anymore.
Six months later, he announced his engagement. Elizabeth nearly choked on her tea.
“Perhaps wait a bit?” she suggested. “Finish your degree first?”
“Mum, love doesn’t wait,” he replied, grinning. “Beatrice and I—we’re unstoppable.”
The wedding was splendid—music, dancing, joy everywhere. Yet there sat Elizabeth, watching her son from the sidelines. Her little boy, now a man stepping into his own life.
Beatrice noticed. Gently, she touched Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Are you alright? Why the tears?”
“Oh, just… emotions,” Elizabeth mumbled, turning away.
But Beatrice pressed on. So Elizabeth confessed—the dream of a daughter, the fear of being left behind, the quiet weight of raising only a son. Beatrice listened, then hugged her tight.
“What if I were your daughter?” she whispered. “I’d like that very much.”
And just like that, everything changed. Edward and Beatrice moved out, bought a home, but they never left Elizabeth behind. Weekends, holidays, phone calls just to chat—she was woven into their lives. And then… along came a granddaughter. A curly-haired, rosy-cheeked miracle who looked just like Edward and somehow still carried the spirit of Charlotte from Elizabeth’s long-ago dreams.
Holding that baby for the first time, Elizabeth wept—this time, from pure happiness. Beatrice smiled and whispered, “You’re a grandmother now. We love you.”
Years passed. Edward built a career; Beatrice started her own business. Elizabeth moved in with them—a cozy room, a bustling household, the warmth of family.
Now, sitting in the garden with her neighbour—one whose daughter rings once a month from abroad, the other with two sons who visit daily—Elizabeth smiles.
“It’s not about what you’re given,” she says. “It’s about what you make of it. I wanted a daughter… and fate gave me a son. And a daughter-in-law. And now—this.” She watches her granddaughter building sandcastles, then silently adds, *Mum, you were wrong. A son can be a mother’s joy too. If she raises him right.*
