My daughter, Emily Carter, becomes a mother far too early shes only seventeen. Shes still a girl with bright, hopeful eyes, dreaming of a life that has just begun. She gives birth to a son, Oliver, and moves into my flat in Leeds. I do what I can: I hold the baby at night, cook meals, soothe her when shes weary. Yet she often says, This isnt my life. I want something different.
At nineteen she packs for a job in Dublin, promising shell send money home and give Oliver a better future. She swears shell be back soon, but a week passes and her phone no longer rings. From then on I hear nothing from her.
Occasionally I spot a smiling picture of Emily online on holiday with friends, looking carefree. She looks happy, but theres no call, no penny transferred, no Hows he doing? from her.
I shoulder everything myself. I take Oliver to nursery, then primary school, help with his homework, nurse his fevers, listen to his childish fantasies. He grows up calling me Gran.
When he turns ten, Emily shows up unannounced. She says she wants to see him, stays a month, takes him to the park, buys new clothes, leaves a small envelope of cash. I cling to the hope that this time shell stay, but she vanishes again.
Two silent years slip by. I stop waiting for her, refusing the bitterness and the arguments. I live solely for Oliver.
At twelve she appears once more, claiming shes come back for her son, as if he were a suitcase she can collect whenever she feels like it. I try to block her, but I have no legal standing. A court summons arrives, ordering a mediation meeting.
In that meeting, while Oliver sobs and begs, I tell Emily, Take him. Ive done my part. She drives him to Newcastle. The pain is sharp, but I accept it.
At first she visits him every fortnight, then less often, then only during school holidays. Each time Oliver whispers, Gran, this isnt my home. I never utter a harsh word about her, only repeat softly, One day youll understand.
That day arrives when he turns eighteen. He walks up to my doorstep with a suitcase, tears in his eyes, embraces me and says, Gran, I want to live with you. I dont weep; I pull him close and murmur, This house will always be yours.
Now Oliver is an adult, studying, dreaming, building his own life. His mother lives far away, and he doesnt seek her out. He says he isnt angry theres simply nothing left to talk about. I feel a quiet peace, knowing I have fulfilled my duty, and the love I gave has finally come back to me.
