I dreamed of a daughter, but heaven gave me a son. And I wept at his wedding…
When Alfred and Emily celebrated with a grand, glittering feast, and every guest raised a glass to the happy couple, no one noticed the woman in the corner, quietly brushing away tears. It was the groom’s mother—Margaret Whitmore. And she was not crying from joy. Her heart ached not with happiness, but with loneliness, which she feared would now be her only companion.
Long ago, her own mother had said, *”You bear a son, and one day he’ll leave. Try again—perhaps a daughter will stay. A girl is for her mother; a boy is for his wife.”* Margaret had scoffed then. Life stretched ahead, endless—why rush?
In her youth, she had dreamed of a daughter. Imagined washing a round little face at dawn, braiding curls, tying ribbons. She had even picked a name—Rosemary. She bought pink blankets, begged a friend to save her baby clothes—just in case.
But fate had other plans. A boy arrived. Alfred. And though he was no Rosemary, he was so tender, so sweet, with such soft curls that Margaret would gaze at him and think, *”Almost like a little girl…”*
As a child, strangers mistook him for one. But he grew—taller, prouder, a man now, yet still kind, still gentle. She was proud of him. Yet somewhere inside, a quiet regret lingered—what if she had been braver, what if she had stayed, what if there had been a Rosemary after all?
When Alfred brought Emily home, Margaret knew at once. The way they laughed, the way their fingers twined—it was real love. She had meant to say so many things, but all that came out was, *”Don’t stay out too late…”*
Alfred nodded, but his eyes told the truth—this was no boy anymore. He was a man now, his own master.
Six months later, when he announced his wedding, Margaret nearly choked.
*”Wait a little longer,”* she urged. *”At least finish your studies—”*
*”Mum, love doesn’t wait,”* he grinned. *”Emily and I—we’re unstoppable. I’d do anything for her.”*
The wedding was splendid, bright with music and dancing. And there, in the midst of it all, Margaret sat apart, watching her son—no longer her little boy, but a man stepping into his own life.
Emily noticed. She drifted over, rested a hand on her mother-in-law’s shoulder.
*”Margaret,”* she murmured. *”Are you crying? What’s wrong?”*
*”Nothing, dear,”* Margaret turned away. *”Just… emotions.”*
But Emily stayed. So Margaret told her—about the daughter she’d dreamed of, the fear of being left behind, how hard it was to be a woman with only a son. Emily listened, silent. Then she hugged her tight.
*”Let me be your daughter,”* she said. *”I’d like that very much.”*
After that, everything changed. Alfred and Emily moved into a flat, then bought a house. They lived apart, but Margaret was always welcome—weekends, holidays. Emily called often, asked her advice. And then… a granddaughter arrived. Rosy-cheeked, curly-haired, the very image of Alfred—and the Rosemary of Margaret’s long-ago dreams.
When she first held the baby, Margaret wept. But this time, it was joy. Emily, watching, whispered, *”You’re a grandmother now. We love you.”*
Years passed. Alfred built a career, Emily started her own business, and Margaret moved in with them—a spacious home, her own room, love all around. Everything a woman could want.
Now, she smiles remembering that wedding, those tears. She sits in the garden with the neighbors—one whose daughter moved to Australia and rings once a month, another with two sons who visit daily.
*”It’s not about what you’re given,”* Margaret says. *”It’s what you make of it. I wished for a daughter… and heaven sent me a son. And a daughter besides. Thank you, Lord.”*
And as she watches her granddaughter digging in the sand, she whispers to her own mother, in that quiet place inside: *”You were wrong. A son can be his mother’s, too… if she raises him to be.”*
