I had hoped for a daughter, but God gave me a son. And on his wedding day, I wept…
As James and Emily celebrated their grand, joyous reception, with every guest raising a glass to the happy couple, no one noticed the woman in the far corner of the room quietly wiping away tears. It was the groom’s mother—Margaret Wilson. And she wasn’t crying from happiness. Her heart ached not with joy but with loneliness, a loneliness she feared would now be her constant companion.
Years ago, her own mother had told her, *”If you have a son, you’ll be alone one day. Have another, maybe a girl will come. A daughter stays for her mother—a son leaves for his wife.”* Back then, Margaret had brushed it off. Life stretched ahead—why worry?
From a young age, she’d dreamed of a daughter. Imagined washing a little round face each morning, brushing curls, tying ribbons. She’d even picked a name—Sophie. She bought pink baby clothes, asked a friend to save her little girl’s hand-me-downs—just in case.
But fate had other plans. A boy was born—James. And though he’d never be Sophie, he was so gentle, affectionate, and curly-haired that Margaret would gaze at him and think, *”Almost like a girl…”*
As a toddler, strangers often mistook him for one. Then he grew—taller, stronger, independent. But he kept his kindness, his open heart. She was proud. Yet deep down, regret lingered—what if she’d had that Sophie? What if she hadn’t been afraid, hadn’t left her husband, hadn’t stayed alone?
When James first brought Emily home, Margaret knew instantly. The way they laughed, the way their hands fit—this was real love. She couldn’t bring herself to say what she’d planned. Instead, she only murmured, *”Don’t stay out too late…”*
James nodded, but his eyes held a new certainty. He wasn’t her little boy anymore. He was a man, making his own choices.
Six months later, when he announced his engagement, Margaret nearly choked on her tea.
*”Shouldn’t you wait? At least finish university…”* she tried.
*”Mum, love doesn’t wait,”* he grinned. *”Emily and I—we’re unstoppable. Together, I can do anything.”*
The wedding was lavish, full of music and dancing. And there, in the midst of it all, Margaret sat quietly, watching her son. Her no-longer-little, curly-haired boy, stepping into his own life.
Emily noticed. She approached, resting a gentle hand on her mother-in-law’s shoulder.
*”Margaret, are you crying? Is everything alright?”*
*”Just… emotions, dear,”* she murmured, turning away.
But Emily wouldn’t let it go. So Margaret told her—about the daughter she’d dreamed of, the fear of being left behind, the weight of raising only a son. Emily listened, then hugged her tight.
*”Let me be your daughter,”* she whispered. *”I’d love that.”*
From then on, everything changed. James and Emily rented a flat, then bought their own. They lived apart but always invited Margaret—weekends, holidays. Emily called often, asked for advice. And then… a granddaughter arrived. Curly-haired, sweet-faced—the spitting image of James, and the Sophie of Margaret’s youthful dreams.
The first time she held the baby, Margaret cried again—but this time, from joy. Emily, watching, simply said, *”You’re a grandmother now. We love you so much.”*
Years passed. James built a career; Emily started her own business. Margaret moved in with them—a spacious house, her own room, surrounded by love. Everything a woman her age could wish for.
Now, she smiles remembering that wedding, those tears. Often, she sits in the garden with her neighbor—one whose daughter moved to Australia and calls once a month, another with two sons who visit daily.
*”It’s not about what you’re given,”* Margaret says. *”It’s about what you make of it. I wanted a daughter… but fate gave me a son. And a daughter, too. Thank you, God.”*
And as she watches her granddaughter dig in the sand, she silently tells her mother, *”You were wrong. A son can stay for his mother too—if she raises him right.”*
