Closer Than Ever
“Shame Anna Margaret didn’t show up again,” murmured Emily to her husband, James, as their three-year-old grandson, Oliver, puffed out the candles on his birthday cake with all the focus a toddler could muster. “She still hasn’t met her great-grandson… hurts, doesn’t it?”
“If she doesn’t want to, that’s her loss,” James snapped. “I texted her two weeks ago. How many times do we have to invite her?”
“Maybe a phone call would’ve helped? A nudge? She’s not getting any younger…”
“Em, enough. She forgets nothing when it suits her. If she hasn’t bothered to see her grandson in three years, she doesn’t care. She’s got our address, our number. Pride’s just thicker than blood to her.”
Emily stayed quiet. Five years on, the hurt still stung like a fresh papercut. Stubborn, silly, lingering—no one truly to blame, and yet…
James first spotted Emily at a mate’s wedding. Back then, she wasn’t alone—she was with a man who turned heads. Tall, polished, oozing confidence. Textbook “alpha.” James never worked up the nerve to approach. Later, he heard the bloke had left Emily high and dry with a baby girl. So he orchestrated a “chance” meeting through a friend. Then came the wooing—persistent, patient. They married before little Sophie turned one.
Anna Margaret, his mother, had greeted the news with polite reserve. No cheers, no meddling. She’d assumed it wouldn’t last—another man’s child, a wife older… But James was happy. So she bit her tongue.
Only once did she say what she really thought. When James decided to adopt Sophie, his mother called him for a “serious chat.”
“Why take on someone else’s child? That’s not your responsibility.”
“Mum, Sophie isn’t ‘someone else’s.’ She calls me Dad. I’m the only father she’s ever known.”
“But there’s a biological one! Even if he walked away, that doesn’t change facts.”
“Does it matter who fathered her if I’ve raised her from the start?”
“Of course it does! What if you and Emily split? You’d pay child support for a girl you’ve no legal tie to?”
“Mum! Are you seriously banking on us divorcing?”
“I just want you thinking about your future children. Your real ones.”
“And if they never come? Then what?”
“They will! You should leave everything to your blood, not some stranger’s girl!”
James stood.
“Enough. If you’re waiting for me to walk away from Em and Sophie, don’t hold your breath. I love them. And Sophie’s your granddaughter, whether you like it or not.”
Seven years later, Henry was born. To Anna Margaret, he became the sun in her sky. She doted, spoiled, babysat. Sophie? Faded into the background. Emily never brought it up—no use rocking the boat. Henry and Granny were thick as thieves. Even holidays were spent at hers. Sophie noticed—sharp kid. Once, she asked:
“Why doesn’t Granny hang out with me as much?”
“She just always dreamed of a grandson,” Emily hedged. “Henry looks like your dad at that age.”
Sophie grew up. By fourteen, she’d pieced it together. One day, she came home and cut to the chase:
“Mum, tell me straight—is James not my real dad?”
“…No.”
“Thought so. But who cares? He’s my dad. The only one that counts.”
And everyone breathed easier.
Then, at Henry’s sixteenth birthday, Granny raised her glass and dropped a bombshell:
“Henry, dear, time to find a wife! When you do, I’ll gift you a flat. Want to meet my great-grandbabies!”
The lad smirked.
“Granny, I’m not even out of school! Give it to Sophie—she’ll pop out great-grandkids faster.”
Anna Margaret went still. Then, cool as you please:
“But you’re not really related. She’s got a different father.”
The room froze. Silence rang louder than any alarm. Henry paled. Looked at his parents. Stood.
“Right. Party’s over.”
Guests scattered. Emily tore into her mother-in-law like never before.
“Why?! Why now? What did you even want to achieve?”
“I won’t go to my grave hiding truths. He deserved to know.”
“And what good did that do?!”
But the old woman just stared.
After that, Henry stopped calling Granny. He’d realized: his parents had acted out of love. Granny? All those years, she’d buttered him up while sneering at Sophie. Family wasn’t blood—it was choice. So he chose.
Sophie married. Granny ignored the photos. When a great-granddaughter arrived? Radio silence. James tried calling—nothing. She clung to her creed: blood was all that mattered.
Then, at eighteen, Henry announced he was engaged. His parents balked:
“You’re too young!”
“Granny wanted great-grandkids,” he shrugged. “Guess she didn’t want them that badly.”
That, finally, wounded Anna Margaret. She waited for apologies. Never even showed for the great-grandson’s birth.
Come spring, Emily fell seriously ill. Just as she recovered—a call:
“Anna Margaret’s in hospital. Broken hip.”
Emily paused. Then, curt: “Tell her… I’ll stop by.”
Three days later, she stood in the ward with a bag of treats. Granny faced the window.
“Brought you Kendal mint cake. You always liked it…”
Silence.
“We miss you.”
Without turning:
“Is Henry still angry?”
“No. He wants us to be family again.”
They took Granny home after. Everyone pitched in. At first sparingly, then daily. No one mentioned the past. Only once, when her great-grandson handed her a mug—”Drink up, there’s dinosaur nuggets in here”—did she cry. Too late, but for the first time in years… from happiness.
