I am Emily, and this is your grandson, six years old.
In a quiet village nestled in the rolling hills of the English countryside, where cobbled lanes wound between ancient oaks and time seemed to slow, my life was shattered in an instant. My name is Margaret Whitmore, and I was walking home from work when a voice called out to me. I turned and frozea young woman stood before me, clutching the hand of a small boy, no older than six. She stepped closer, her words cutting through me like ice: *”Margaret Whitmore, my name is Charlotte, and this is your grandson, Oliver. Hes six years old.”*
I couldnt breathe. Their faces meant nothing to me, yet her words struck like lightning. I have a son, Williambrilliant, driven, climbing the corporate ladder with relentless ambition. But he isnt married, and though Id dreamed of grandchildren, I never imagined it would happen like thisabruptly, on a dim village lane, delivered by a stranger. Shock gave way to disbelief. How had I been kept in the dark for six years?
Perhaps it was my fault. I raised William alone, working tirelessly to give him every advantage. I was proud of his success, but his love life had always troubled me. He flitted from one romance to the next, never committing. I never interfered, but deep down, I remembered my own youthbarely twenty when I had him, abandoned, scraping by. It wasnt until a few years ago that William treated me to a holiday in Cornwallmy first glimpse of the sea. I regretted nothing. But the ache for grandchildren never left.
Now here stood Charlotte and Oliver. Her voice trembled, but her gaze never wavered. *”I debated telling you for years,”* she said. *”But Oliver is part of your family. You had a right to know. Im not asking for anythingIve raised him alone. Heres my number. If you want to meet him, call me.”*
Then she was gone, leaving me reeling. I phoned William at once. He was as stunned as I was. Barely remembering a fleeting affair with a Charlotte years ago, he admitted shed told him she was pregnantbut hed refused responsibility. Then she vanished, and hed put it from his mind. His words gutted me. My son, my pride, had shrugged off fatherhood like an inconvenience.
William swore he knew nothing of the boy and doubted Oliver was even his. *”Why wait six years? Somethings off.”* I pressed for answers. Theyd parted ways in September, he said. Doubt slithered inwhat if Charlotte was lying? Yet Olivers face, his wide, uncertain eyes, haunted me.
In the end, I called Charlotte back. She told me Oliver was born in April. When I mentioned a DNA test, she answered coolly, *”I know who his father is. No test is necessary.”* Her parents helped, she said. She worked to support Oliver, whod start Year Two in the autumn. Her voice was steady, resolute.
*”Margaret, if you want to see Oliver, I wont stop you,”* she said. *”But if you walk away, Ill understand. I know from William how hard this must be”*
The line went dead. And now, every night, I lie awake, torn between knocking on her door or leaving the past buried where it belongs.
