**Happy Changes**
I stepped out of the building and paused, squinting slightly at the sky to judge the likelihood of rain before giving the slightest nod to the neighbours perched on the bench. Chin lifted, I walked on. The women, who had hushed at my approach, stirred, whispering behind my back with sharp looks.
No one knew my exact age. Retired now for several years, I was no young thing—hair streaked with grey but always stylishly cut, eyes lightly made up for my years, my figure still upright. No paunch, no excess folds, though I wouldn’t call myself slender. Some guessed late fifties, others early sixties. The bitter ones insisted I was past seventy, preserved only by the miracles of cosmetic surgery.
*”What’s she got to look bad about?”* I’d once overheard. *”Had a decent husband, no drinking, no abuse. Left quietly for a younger woman. Only son, no grandkids, no pets—no responsibilities. If only my Fred weren’t a drunk, I might be walking about like royalty too.”*
*”You? Royalty? Don’t make me laugh, Ethel,”* another had snickered, elbowing her.
But I’d long stopped caring for gossip.
Life had been ordinary, like most women’s. My husband had been handsome, striking—women threw themselves at him. I’d endured heartache. When he left, I nearly fell apart, but I pulled myself together for our son, Andrew. After that, I kept men at arm’s length.
Andrew was nearing thirty, still unmarried—hardly normal for a grown man living with his mother. He’d had girlfriends, but none lasted. None I approved of, if I’m honest. Still, I held my tongue. Forbid him, and I’d push him away.
Then he nearly married one. Sweet girl. A wedding? Fine, it was time. Andrew met her parents and returned shaken. Her father was a drunk, her mother frail from his beatings. Over drinks, the man had snarled threats, nearly starting a fight.
*”Mum, what do I do? I love her, but how do I live with family like that?”* he’d asked.
*”You can’t choose in-laws, Andrew. They’ll always be part of her—and you. Marry her if you can face that.”*
To my relief, they split.
One evening, after a nap and a book, I set the table for dinner, glancing at the clock. Andrew was late. *”Fallen in love again,”* I thought dryly.
He arrived with a girl—Mira.
*”Mum, this is Mira. Mira, my mother, Natalie.”*
I looked at her and nearly gasped. Blue eyes like lakes, dimples when she smiled—*this* was a girl men married.
*”You might’ve warned me. I’d have cooked something proper,”* I grumbled.
*”Everything you make is perfect,”* he said, resting his head on my shoulder.
*”Flattery means you want something.”* I tapped his forehead. *”Wash up. Dinner’s ready.”*
Laughter echoed from the bathroom before they returned, flushed. The table was set, tea steaming—everything as it should be.
Andrew’s guilty look confirmed my suspicions. A surprise was coming.
*”Out with it,”* I said.
He inhaled. *”The lads and I are hiking this weekend. Mira’s coming.”*
*”Good. See how she handles mud and mosquitoes.”*
*”Could you… watch her little girl? Six years old—no trouble.”*
*”Whose child?”* I asked, though I knew.
*Not another one. First tattoos and piercings, then drunk in-laws—now a child? She can’t be older than twenty-five!*
*”Mine,”* Mira said, steady, unflinching.
Something in her tone gave me pause. No shame, no defiance. Just truth.
*”No. I’ve forgotten how to mind children. Plans. Besides, someone else’s child—responsibility—”*
*”Plans? A park stroll? Take Zlata with you,”* Andrew pressed.
*Zlata? What names these kids have.*
Mira laid a hand on his arm. *”It’s fine.”* Her gaze met mine again—calm, direct.
*”Just two days, Mum. Back by Sunday,”* Andrew pleaded.
I sighed. *”Fine.”*
*”You’re the best!”* He kissed my cheek. *”We’ll drop her off at six.”*
*Six?*
That night, I stewed. A child—a stranger—disrupting my quiet life.
By dawn, I was boiling porridge. Andrew fetched Mira and the girl.
The door clicked. In the hallway stood Mira—hiking gear, a bag—and clinging to her, a little thing with braids and a doll. Eyes like her mother’s, wary but open. My chest tightened.
*”Clothes, just in case,”* Mira said, setting down the bag.
*”We’ll be off, Mum,”* Andrew urged, but Mira shot me a pleading look.
*”Go. She’ll be fine.”*
Once alone, I turned to the girl. *”Don’t be afraid. I’m Natalie. Can you remember that?”*
She nodded, peering around. Slowly, we warmed to each other. After breakfast, she paged through an old book of Andrew’s.
*”Shall I read to you?”* I asked.
*”I can. Just slow.”* She sounded out syllables.
*”Clever girl.”*
By eleven, we ventured outside.
*”Visitors, Natalie?”* called Ethel from her bench.
I nodded curtly. Zlata darted to the playground. I sat awkwardly nearby. *Grandmother? Hardly. This might be over by Sunday.*
Then—*”Auntie Nat! I want a cart like hers!”*
*”For your doll?”*
*”No. For leaves.”* Those lake eyes bored into me.
*”Right. Let’s ask William.”*
William—forever tinkering in the garden—nearly fumbled his tools when I approached.
*”William, my…” I hesitated, glanced down. *”Friend needs a cart. Can you make one?”*
*”For you? I’d build a palace,”* he breathed, heart pounding.
The next day, Zlata and a friend hauled pebbles in their carts. I watched, smug. *Ours is prettier, better dressed.* *Ours?*
Andrew and Mira returned Sunday night. I was putting Zlata to bed.
*”Could she stay till morning?”* I asked.
But Mira refused. Work. Nursery.
Later, Andrew confessed: Zlata wasn’t Mira’s daughter, but her sister. Their mother had remarried younger, demanded a child, then died in childbirth. The man vanished. Mira took the baby, raised her as her own.
*”Her own father abandoned her, but Mira took that weight. Respect,”* I murmured. *”You’re serious about her?”*
*”We’re getting married. We’ll live apart, but visit often. And when we have kids, Zlata will have you.”*
A sting—*all decided without me*—but I said nothing.
Without Zlata, my old life felt hollow. Soon, I baked for weekend visits, thrilled by my new family—son, wife, granddaughter, another coming. Zlata stayed over often. I’d grown fond.
Who’d have thought? A stranger’s child filling my heart.
William still pined, scurrying to please me. Who knows? Life surprises you.
And *Grandma*? Warmer than *Auntie Nat*. Much warmer.
