I longed for a daughter, but God gave me a son. And I wept at his wedding…
As Alexander and Charlotte celebrated their grand, glittering reception, with every guest raising a glass to the happy couple, no one noticed the woman in the far corner of the hall, dabbing her eyes discreetly. It was the groom’s mother—Margaret Elizabeth. And her tears were not from joy. Her heart ached, not with happiness, but with the crushing weight of loneliness—a solitude she feared would now be her constant companion.
Long ago, her own mother had told her, “If you bear a son, you’ll be alone in the end. Have another—perhaps a girl. A daughter stays with her mother; a son belongs to his wife.” Back then, Margaret had scoffed. Life stretched ahead of her—why worry?
As a girl, she had dreamed of a daughter. Imagined washing a tiny, round face in the mornings, brushing curls, tying ribbons. She’d even chosen a name—Emily. Pink blankets were bought, hand-me-downs saved, just in case.
But fate had other plans. A boy was born. Alexander. And though he was no Emily, he was sweet, gentle, with golden curls. She’d cradle him, whispering, “Almost like a girl…”
For years, strangers mistook him for one. But then he grew—taller, stronger, a man now, yet still kind-hearted. She was proud. But deep down, regret smoldered. What if she’d had that daughter? What if she hadn’t walked away from her marriage? What if she hadn’t been left alone?
When Alexander brought home Charlotte, Margaret knew at once. The way they looked at each other, laughed, fingers intertwined—this was love, real and unshakable. She swallowed the words she’d meant to say, murmuring only, “Don’t stay out too late…”
Alexander nodded, but his eyes held a truth: he was no longer her little boy. He was a man, and his choices were his own.
Six months later, when he announced his engagement, Margaret nearly choked on her tea.
“Wait a little longer,” she urged. “At least finish university—”
“Mum, love doesn’t wait,” he said softly. “Charlotte and I—we’re unstoppable.”
The wedding was lavish, music and laughter filling the air. And there, amid the celebration, Margaret sat apart, watching her son—her once-tiny, curly-haired child—now stepping into his own life.
Charlotte noticed. She slipped beside her mother-in-law, a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Margaret, you’re crying. What’s wrong?”
“Just… emotions,” Margaret murmured, turning away.
But Charlotte pressed on. And so Margaret confessed—the dream of a daughter, the fear of being left behind, the ache of raising a son alone. Charlotte listened, silent, then pulled her close.
“Let me be your daughter,” she whispered. “I’d love nothing more.”
From then, everything changed. Alexander and Charlotte moved out, first renting, then buying their own home. Weekends, holidays—Margaret was always invited. Charlotte called often, sought advice. And then… a granddaughter arrived. Golden curls, bright-eyed—Alexander’s twin, and the Emily she’d once dreamed of.
Cradling the baby, Margaret wept—this time, for joy. Charlotte squeezed her hand. “You’re a grandmother now. We adore you.”
Years passed. Alexander climbed the corporate ladder; Charlotte built her own business. Margaret moved in with them—a spacious home, her own room, love in abundance.
Now, she smiled remembering that wedding, those tears. Sitting in the garden with neighbors—one whose daughter lived in Australia, calling only on birthdays; another with two sons who visited daily—she sighed.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s a son or daughter,” she said. “It’s how you raise them. I wanted a girl… but fate gave me a son. And a daughter, too. Thank you, God.”
Watching her granddaughter play in the grass, she silently corrected her mother at last: “You were wrong. A son can stay with his mother… if she teaches him how.”
