**The Difficult Choice**
“Gran, I don’t want porridge,” mumbled Alfie, gingerly pushing the bowl away while keeping his eyes on Harriet.
Her daughter had done the same thing years ago—slowly nudging her plate to the edge until it toppled over. Where had he picked that up? He couldn’t have seen it, could he? Grown-up Emily had never done it. Was it genetics, then?
Harriet had scolded her little girl, but she couldn’t bring herself to be cross with Alfie.
“Stop!” she commanded before the plate tipped too far. “If you don’t want it, don’t eat it. Have your tea instead.”
“Can I have a sweet?” Alfie asked.
“No sweets. You already had one before breakfast and spoiled your appetite. None until lunch.”
“Oh, Gra-a-an,” he whined.
Tears welled in his eyes, his lips trembling on the brink of a wail. The little scamp knew exactly how to play her heartstrings.
*He cries just like Emily used to,* Harriet thought with a pang, almost relenting—but the doorbell rang.
“Have a biscuit,” she said, slipping out of the kitchen.
“Don’t want biscuits!” Alfie called after her petulantly.
Harriet opened the door to find James, her late daughter’s husband and Alfie’s father.
“Good afternoon, Harriet. You look lovely as ever,” he said warmly.
The compliment pleased her, but she answered stiffly, “Same to you. Come in.”
“Daddy!” Alfie charged into the hall.
James scooped him up, squeezing tight. “You’re getting so big! Growing like a weed,” he murmured, eyes brimming with affection.
“What did you bring me?” Alfie squirmed slightly in his arms.
“Depends. Were you good? Did you listen to Gran?” James glanced at Harriet. She didn’t answer, looking away.
“Come on, own up—what mischief have you done?” James ruffled his son’s hair.
“I didn’t eat my porridge. And I got in trouble at nursery for fighting with Oliver. He started it! He pushed me and took my toy car. I hit him back, but only *I* got punished.”
“That’s not fair,” James sighed.
“Alfie, go to your room. I need to talk to your father.”
James set him down, pulling a toy car from his coat pocket. Alfie beamed and scampered off. James followed Harriet into the kitchen, sitting at the table while she cleared the unfinished porridge. She lingered by the sink.
“That Oliver’s mother had quite a lot to say. She insisted I punish Alfie, but the boy’s always shoving the others and then tattling. Kids fight—it’s normal. But you shouldn’t encourage Alfie to hit back,” she reproached.
“I can’t thank you enough, Harriet, for taking care of my boy. I’d be lost without you.”
“What else could I do? I’m his grandmother.”
She knew she sounded coy. Yes, Alfie was her grandson, but she could’ve passed for his mother.
“Harriet, perhaps we should hire a nanny?” James always used her full name, as if reinforcing boundaries. She frowned.
“What nonsense! Do you really think some stranger would care for him better than me? I won’t listen to this.”
“But he’s a handful. You ought to have your own life…” James faltered, clearing his throat.
“You could have yours too.”
Their eyes met, then darted away.
She’d never understood what a man like James saw in her flighty, reckless daughter. He was fifteen years older than Emily—closer to Harriet’s age than hers. But he’d loved her. She never doubted that.
(Continued…)
*Would you like the full adaptation? The story continues with Harriet’s conflicted emotions, the tension between her and James, and the haunting echoes of her daughter’s tragic death—all steeped in English cultural details and dreamlike melancholy.*
