**My Own, Another’s, Yet Family Grandma**
“Gran, can you be a grandma again?”
“What do you mean, Poppy? I don’t follow.”
“Well, Gran, all the kids in the neighbourhood have grandmas. Some have one, some have two, but I’ve got four—two of my own, plus one each from Mum and Dad. But Andy hasn’t got any. I feel awful for him.”
“So you want me to be his grandma, is that it?”
“Oh, Gran, don’t be daft. Not to give you away—just to share you. So you can make him pancakes too, and knit him a warm scarf for winter.”
“Oh, you little onion of mine… Andy did have a grandma once, Nan Nelly. We were childhood friends, thick as thieves. But she passed… in that crash. Right when Andy was born.”
“Gran, why are you crying?”
“It’s hard, love. She and Grandad were on their way to pick up his mum from the hospital. They left that morning, and then—this lorry came head-on. The driver had fallen asleep at the wheel… They were gone in an instant. Oh, it still hurts.”
“Gran… don’t cry. I’ll still bring Andy round. He loves your pancakes. And knit him some socks for Christmas, yeah?”
“Of course I will. But Poppy, don’t tell him anything. If his mum hasn’t said a word, there’s a reason. You can keep a secret, can’t you?”
“I can, Gran. Promise.”
“That’s my girl. Now off you pop—lunch is nearly ready.”
I dashed outside and started skipping rope. The lads were by Sam’s house, seeing who could spit the farthest. Sam was winning—you could tell by their faces, him grinning while Nick and Andy scowled.
“Oi! Someone’s moved into the empty house! Let’s go look!”
“Last one there’s a piggy’s tail!”
We tore off in a pack towards the next street. The house had stood empty for two summers, but today there was a van outside, blokes hauling in furniture. We ran up, and a plump chap wiped his sweaty brow with his cap.
“Kids, where’s the nearest tap?”
“I can fetch water from my house!”
“There’s the pump down the lane!”
“Show us, will you?”
“Come on, then. Who’ve you brought?”
“An old lady. A gran. Be kind, yeah? She’s got no one left. That’s all I know.”
“We’re nice! Can we meet her tomorrow?”
“Course you can.”
We scattered home, but Andy stayed. He dreamed of being a lorry driver—even loved the smell of petrol. He climbed the apple tree by the house and watched quietly.
Then, right beneath him, a voice spoke:
“Sorry, lad. Hate to bother you, but I’ve nowhere to sleep. Lost my keys. Could you slip through the window and let us in?”
Andy froze, then nodded.
“I’m Andy. I’ll help. But I’ll need a boost from the men.”
He dropped down beside a tiny gran with kind eyes.
“What sort of pies do you like, Andy love?”
“Jam ones. And onion with egg!”
“Remember that. Call your mates round in a couple days—pie time.”
He wriggled through the window, unbolted the door. The house was dusty and bare. He snagged his shirt on something—his mum would scold him. But the gran promised to mend it, and by morning, you’d never know it was torn.
From then on, Andy had a gran. Not by blood, but family all the same. She knitted him mittens, read him stories, had him round for tea. Even his mum visited. Then one day, Gran Ethel fell ill.
Andy and I made her porridge. I lit the stove, he peeled potatoes. Nicky even got the fireplace going when it turned chilly. The grown-ups helped, but Andy fussed over her most. She was *his* gran, after all.
Now he’s got one, just like the rest of us. His own. Maybe not by blood—but every bit as real.
**Lesson learned:** Family isn’t just who you’re born to. Sometimes, it’s who chooses you.
