My daughter turned mother far too earlyonly seventeen, a fresheyed girl still dreaming of a life just beginning. She gave birth to a son, moved in with me, and I did what I could: I steadied her, rocked the infant through the night, cooked, soothed, tried to stitch the frayed edges of her world. Yet she kept saying,
This isnt my life. I want something else.
At nineteen she slipped across the Channel, promising shed work, send money, give her boy a better future, and that shed be back soon. A month passed and her number fell silent. From then on I heard nothing of her voice.
Sometimes a picture would surface on the webher laughing on a seaside holiday with friends, looking content. No call, no penny, no hows he doing? reached me. I took everything onto my own shoulders. I raised the boy alonenursery, school, homework, fevers, bedtime fantasies. He grew calling me Gran.
When he turned ten, she appeared out of the fog, saying she simply wanted to see him. She lingered a month, took him for walks, bought new shoes and toys, left a few pounds on the kitchen table. I believed perhaps this time it would be different. But she vanished again.
Two years of quiet stretched on. I stopped waiting, shunned courts and quarrels, lived only for him. At twelve she resurfaced, declaring she had come back for her son, as if he were a suitcase she could collect whenever she pleased. I tried to refuse, but the law gave me no ground. A summons arrived for a mediation hearing.
There, while he wept and begged not to be taken, I said,
Take him. Ive done my part.
She whisked him away to another town. The pain was sharp, but I made peace with it. At first she brought him back every fortnight, then less often, then only for school holidays. Each time the boy whispered,
Gran, this isnt my home.
I never cursed her, only repeated softly,
One day youll understand.
That day finally came.
When he turned eighteen, he stood on my doorstep with a battered suitcase, tears glistening, and threw his arms around me,
Gran, I want to live with you.
I did not cry; I pressed him close and murmured,
This house will always be yours.
Now he is an adult, studying, dreaming, building his own life. His mother lives far away, and he no longer looks for her. He says he bears no resentmentjust that there is nothing left to discuss.
And I feel a calm settle over me,
because I have kept my promise,
because the love I gave has somehow found its way back.
