**A Difficult Decision**
“Grandma, I don’t want porridge,” murmured Alfie, pushing his bowl away slowly, his bright blue eyes fixed on Eleanor.
Her daughter had done the same thing as a child—nudging her plate closer to the edge until it tipped over. But where had he learned it? He’d never seen it happen. Her grown-up Sophie had outgrown the habit. Was it genetics?
Eleanor had scolded Sophie, but she couldn’t bring herself to be angry with Alfie.
“Stop!” she commanded just as the bowl neared the edge. “If you don’t want it, don’t eat it. Have some tea instead.”
“Can I have a sweet?” Alfie asked hopefully.
“No sweets. You already had one before breakfast and ruined your appetite. None until lunch.”
“But Graaandmaaa…” His voice wobbled, tears welling up, his lower lip trembling. The little scamp knew exactly how to play her.
*He even cries like Sophie used to*, Eleanor thought, her resolve weakening—until the doorbell rang.
“Take a biscuit,” she said, hurrying out.
“Don’t want a biscuit!” Alfie whined at her retreating back.
She opened the door to find Edward, her son-in-law and Alfie’s father, standing there.
“Good afternoon, Eleanor. You look as lovely as ever,” he said with a warm smile.
Pleasure flickered in her chest, but she kept her tone cool. “Likewise. Come in.”
“Daddy!” Alfie barrelled into the hallway.
Edward scooped him up, hugging him tightly. “You’re getting so heavy! Growing like a weed.” His eyes softened with affection.
“Did you bring me something?” Alfie wriggled in his arms.
“Have you behaved? Listened to Grandma? No trouble?” Edward glanced at Eleanor, who stayed silent, avoiding his gaze.
“Out with it—what mischief have you been up to?” Edward ruffled his son’s hair.
“I didn’t eat my porridge. Then I got into trouble at nursery—I hit Oliver. But he started it! He pushed me and took my toy car. I hit him back, and *I* got told off, not him!”
“Sounds unfair,” Edward sighed.
“Alfie, go to your room. I need to speak with your father.”
Edward set him down, pulling a toy car from his coat pocket. Alfie beamed and scampered off. Edward followed Eleanor to the kitchen, sitting at the table while she cleared away the half-eaten porridge, lingering by the sink.
“That Oliver’s mother had plenty to say. She demanded I punish Alfie. But Oliver’s always shoving other children, then playing the victim. Children fight—it’s normal. Still, you shouldn’t encourage Alfie to hit back,” she scolded lightly.
“I can’t thank you enough, Eleanor, for looking after my boy. I couldn’t manage without you.”
“What else would I do? I’m his grandmother.” She knew she was being coy. Alfie was her grandson, but she looked young enough to be his mother.
“Eleanor, maybe we should hire a nanny?” Edward always used her full name, maintaining a respectful distance. She frowned.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She shot him a quick glance. His gaze lingered. A woman always knows when a man is looking—really looking. It flustered her.
She turned back to the sink, fiddling with the tap. *Goodness, I’m nervous. The last thing I need is him noticing.* Crossing her arms, she faced him again.
“No nanny. You think a stranger could care for him better than me? End of discussion.”
“But he’s a handful. You should have your own life…” Edward hesitated, clearing his throat.
“So should you.”
Their eyes met, then darted away.
She’d never understood what a man like Edward saw in her flighty, reckless daughter. He was fifteen years older than Sophie—closer to Eleanor’s age. But he’d loved Sophie; that much was certain. Enough to make Eleanor envious.
When Sophie announced her engagement, Eleanor had tried to dissuade her.
“He’s too old for you, too settled. What could you possibly have in common?”
“Mum, we’re in love. I’m not a child—I’m twenty. If you say no, I’ll elope. And you’re just jealous,” Sophie had retorted.
“Take your time. Get to know each other.” Eleanor hoped Edward would lose interest. “A man your own age would suit you better.”
“They’re all boring. Tell me—if you’d met Edward before me, wouldn’t *you* have married him?”
*If only she knew how right she was.*
She’d tried reasoning with Edward too—begging him not to marry her inexperienced daughter.
“She’ll learn. I adore her. She’ll be happy, I promise,” he’d said, and Eleanor believed him.
They married. Of course, Sophie dropped out of university when she got pregnant. She tried so hard—calling Eleanor daily for recipes, asking how to make roast dinners, pancakes, stews. And she’d been a good mother.
Once Alfie started nursery, Sophie returned to her studies part-time. Edward arranged a fake job reference at his firm. Then he bought her that wretched motorbike.
Eleanor had screamed at him—*the most dangerous vehicle! Buy a car instead!*
“I taught her to ride. She’s careful,” he defended.
“You? I’d never have expected this from you.”
“Why not?” He’d smirked, pulling her into a reassuring hug. She’d trembled at his touch—thank God he hadn’t noticed. *His mother-in-law, swooning over him. Disgraceful.*
But she *was* a woman. A young one.
Eleanor had fallen hard at eighteen, gotten pregnant immediately. The boy—terrified—had bolted. Her mother forbade an abortion, babysat while Eleanor finished her degree. She never remarried, trusting no one. *If only Edward had come along then.* Tall, steady, effortlessly handsome. She understood Sophie perfectly.
That day, she’d picked Alfie up from nursery without a second thought. Sophie was out watching motorbike races—not participating, just spectating.
On their way back, the bikes rode in single file along the motorway. A speeding SUV veered onto the road, clipping the last two riders. They skidded off—the lad survived with a broken leg. Sophie wasn’t so lucky. A week in a coma, then gone.
Eleanor had blamed Edward.
“Why did you buy her that death trap? Teach her to ride? She’d be alive now—we’d have that granddaughter she wanted!”
She thought her grief was greater, blind to his devastation. She took Alfie in; Edward didn’t protest. The boy was her lifeline. Later, he tried reclaiming him, but she pleaded. He visited often, bringing toys, money, spending weekends together. She knew she was selfish, but Alfie filled the hole Sophie left.
A year passed. A damp, grey summer loomed. Edward suggested a seaside holiday.
“Go,” she agreed. “You and Alfie need time alone.”
“No. You’re coming too. You need a break. No arguments,” he insisted.
“I’ll be in the way. You should meet someone new…” She stared out the rain-streaked window.
“Don’t be absurd. We’re not going without you.”
“Fine,” she relented. Truthfully, she was terrified to let them go alone.
After Edward left, she dug out sundresses, holding them up to the mirror—until she caught Alfie watching. Shame flooded her. *Who are you primping for? His late wife’s mother. He still loves her.* She shoved the clothes away.
At the hotel, Edward booked her a separate room. On the beach, she stole glances at him—his tan, his broad shoulders. Other women stared too.
He played with Alfie, building sandcastles, oblivious to the admiring mums nearby. Their flirting burned Eleanor up. Finally, she marched over. Edward scooted aside, making space.
“Alfie, put your shirt on—your back’s burning.” She hid a smirk as the women’s faces fell. *Good. Let them think I’m his wife.*
At night, restless, she replayed the sight of him—golden and lean—counting the days until they left.
One evening, Edward gashed his foot on the sink. The bleeding wouldn’t stop—hospital stitches needed. The next day, she and Alfie went to the beach alone. Returning, she checked on Edward. He lay on the bed, bare-chested, bandaged leg propped up.
“I just wanted to see how you were,” she mumbled, turning to leave.
He caught her wrist. “Stay.”
She stood stiffly, avoiding his gaze.
“I’ve wanted to say… Don’t misunderstand. I loved Sophie. But as she grew older, I imagined she’d become like you. You…”
“What are you saying?” Her voice was sharp.
HeShe hesitated, then finally whispered, “All right,” and let herself lean into his embrace, surrendering at last to the happiness she had denied herself for so long.
