I Discovered My Son Had Abandoned His Pregnant Girlfriend—So I Hired a Top Family Lawyer for Her When I Learned What My Son Did, My World Collapsed, Not from Shame, But for the Sake of the Poor Girl Delivering Takeaways on Her Scooter, Exhausted and Heavily Pregnant—So I Decided to Make Things Right Myself I Knocked on Her Door Tuesday Afternoon—Still in Her Work Uniform, Belly Obvious, Eyes Tired—And Said Honestly, ‘I’m the Mother of the Irresponsible Lad Who Left You, and I’m Here to Sort Things Out’ Tears Filled Her Eyes as I Explained, ‘I’m Not Here to Cause Trouble, I’m Here with Solutions—I’ve Already Paid for the Best Family Law Solicitor, Your Appointment Is Tomorrow’ I Told Her, ‘That Boy May Have Come from My Womb, But He Did Not Inherit My Values; He’ll Support This Baby, Even If He Has to Work Three Jobs.’ The Lawyer Did His Job Brilliantly. When My Granddaughter Was Born—Because She Is My Granddaughter, Whether My Son Admits It or Not—I Showed Up at the Hospital with Nappies, Baby Clothes, and a Cot in the Boot ‘Ma’am, You Don’t Have to—’ She Began. ‘Yes, I Do,’ I Interrupted. ‘I’m the Grandma.’ My Son Stopped Speaking to Me, Accusing Me of Betrayal and Interference. I Told Him the Only One Who Ruined Lives Was Him—I’m Simply Repairing the Damage Two Years Later, the Young Woman and My Granddaughter Live With Me—She’s Studying Nights to Be a Nurse, I Mind the Baby, and We’re the Oddest, Yet Closest Family in the Neighbourhood. My Son Still Doesn’t Speak to Me, But He Pays Child Support Without Fail—The Solicitor Is Very Convincing. Yesterday, While I Was Feeding the Baby, She Gave Me a Hug and Whispered, ‘Thank You, Mum.’ ‘Mum.’ And I Wonder: Is There Any Greater Gift Than Gaining a Daughter and Grandchild, Even If It Means Temporarily Losing a Son? Sometimes, Family Isn’t Where You’re Born, But Who You Choose to Stand By. A Story of Responsibility, Conscience, and Unexpected Love

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 3 minViews 3

I found out my son had abandoned a pregnant woman. I paid for her solicitor.

When I learned what my son had done, it felt as if the ground had vanished beneath my feet. Not out of shame, but for that poor young woman Id seen once zipping through our town on a battered scooter, ferrying takeaways in the blazing sun, exhaustion etched into her face and her belly already rounded with pregnancy. That day, I resolved to step in myself.

I knocked on her door one Tuesday afternoon. She answered still in her work polo and black trousers, her bump obvious, her face so drawn it nearly broke my heart.

Yes? she said cautiously.

Im Olivers motherthe irresponsible one who left you to fend for yourself, I said, not bothering with small talk. Im here to put things right.

Her eyes filled instantly with tears.

Mrs Smith, I dont want any trouble

I havent come with problems, love. Ive come with answers. Ever heard of Peter Hadleythe best family solicitor in town? His fees already paid. Youre meeting him tomorrow.

She was stunned into silence. I carried on:

My son might be my flesh and blood, but this isnt how I raised him. Hell support this childeven if it means taking triple shifts.

And thats just how it was. The solicitor sorted everything brilliantly. When my granddaughterbecause shes my granddaughter, whether Oliver likes it or notarrived, I visited the hospital armed with nappies, baby grows, and an unassembled cot stuffed in the car.

Mrs Smith, you really dont need to

Oh, but I do, I interrupted. Im the grandmother.

Naturally, my son stopped speaking to me. Called me a traitor. Said I was meddling, ruining his life. I told him it was he whod caused the damage, and I was merely fixing what little I could.

Two years have passed. That young woman, Sophie, and my granddaughter Emily live with me now. Sophies studying evenings to become a nurse; I look after the baby. Were the oddest little family on our street, but by far the closest-knit. My son still doesnt speak to me, but he pays his maintenance every monththe solicitor made sure of that.

Yesterday, as I was feeding the baby her bottle, Sophie hugged me from behind.

Thank you, mum, she whispered.

Mum.

And I wonder: is there a greater gift than gaining a daughter and granddaughter, even if it means losing your son for a while? Sometimes, family isnt where you come from, but those you choose to stand by.

A story of responsibility, conscience, and an unexpected kind of love.

You’re Taking Advantage of Grandma—She Looks After Your Child but Won’t Even Watch Mine on Weekends There are times in life when we need a quick fix to a problem, just as Laura did. My son is now four years old. There’s no doubt he’s perfect for me. He’s not exactly well-behaved, but are any four-year-olds really angels? They all get up to mischief. Meanwhile, I’m expecting my second child—and that’s where everything began. When I went for my next antenatal appointment, I was sent straight to the hospital—there was cause for concern. No time for delays. The big question was: who would look after my son? My husband was away on a business trip, due back in ten days. My parents were both at work, and no other relatives were available. Then Grandma stepped in and offered to help—she said she’d watch my son until I was discharged. She’s seventy, and he’s energetic, so I didn’t know if she could manage, but what choice did I have? The plan was made. My parents work in the private sector, so they offered to look after their grandson in the evenings, and Grandma would take care of him during the day. It was decided. Still, I worried—after all, he’s my son, and I had no choice. I rang Grandma for updates, only to discover they’d found their own way together. The week flew by, and when my husband returned, he took over. Soon, I was due to come home. Then my sister rang in a rage, saying I’d taken advantage. Her daughter is two, and no matter how she begged, Grandma wouldn’t agree to mind her, even for a weekend, claiming the little one was just too young. ‘You’re spoiling Grandma!’ my sister accused. I explained: I was in a tricky situation—I couldn’t bring my son to hospital with me. I’d asked for my sister’s help, but she refused. Now she wanted to send her daughter to Grandma just so she could relax and take a break. There’s a big difference between leaving a two-year-old and a four-year-old with an elderly lady. Why not take her to her own grandparents? ‘They won’t look after her,’ she said. ‘I have to be on duty all the time.’ I think my sister’s got it wrong—two-year-olds and four-year-olds are worlds apart. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t leave my son with relatives, but my sister insists I’ve taken advantage of Grandma.

A Taste of Freedom – “We finished our renovations last autumn,” began Vera Ignatievna, starting her story. We spent ages picking wallpaper, argued ourselves hoarse over the bathroom tiles, and reminisced about how, twenty years ago, we dreamed of this very three-bedroom flat. “Well, there we have it,” my husband said contentedly as we celebrated the end of our renovation saga. “Now we can get our son married. Misha will bring home his wife, they’ll have children, and our home will finally be lively and filled with joy.” But his dreams weren’t to come true. Instead, our eldest daughter, Katie, arrived back with two suitcases and two kids. “Mum, I’ve got nowhere else to go,” she said, cancelling all our plans in an instant. Misha’s room went to the grandchildren. Fortunately, he didn’t complain, just shrugged: “It’s fine. I’ll have my own place soon.” His “own place” was my mother’s one-bedroom flat. Nicely renovated, previously rented to a young couple. Every month, a modest but important sum appeared in our account—our “safety net” in case my husband and I became old and helpless. Once, I spotted Misha and his fiancée Lara walking past that building, craning their necks in excitement, discussing something animatedly. I knew what they were hoping for, but I didn’t offer anything. Then, one day, I overheard: “Mrs Ignatievna, Misha proposed! We’ve even found a venue for the wedding! Just imagine—a real carriage, a live harpist, a summer terrace with guests out in the garden…” “And where will you live afterwards?” I couldn’t help but ask. “Such a wedding must cost a fortune!” Lara looked at me as if I’d asked about the weather on Mars. “We’ll stay at yours for a bit. We’ll see.” “We already have Katie and the children,” I said slowly. “It’ll be a hostel, not a home.” Lara pouted. “Yes. Maybe you’re right—it wouldn’t be ideal. We’ll look for a real hostel. At least there no one will pry into our souls.” That sharp, “no one will pry,” hit me hard. Was I prying? I just wanted to save them from a mistake. Later, I talked to Misha. My last chance. “Son, why do you need all this show? Just sign the papers quietly—put the money towards a deposit instead!” My voice trembled with emotion. He gazed out the window, jaw set. “Mum, why do you celebrate each wedding anniversary at the ‘Golden Dragon’? You could have a cheaper dinner at home.” I had no answer. “See,” he smirked, “you have your tradition. We want ours.” He compared our modest family dinner every five years to a half-million-pound extravaganza! In his eyes, I saw not a son but a judge—accusing us of hypocrisy. We allow ourselves everything but give him nothing. He forgot that mum and dad are still paying off his car loan. That safety net—he never thought about it. And now he wanted this wedding! What a wedding. In the end, son and future daughter-in-law were offended, especially about the keys to my mother’s flat. *** One night, exhausted, I saw my reflection in the bus window—a tired, aged woman, clutching a heavy bag of groceries, fear in her gaze. And suddenly, with painful clarity, I knew: I do everything out of…fear. Fear of being a burden. Fear the children will leave. Fear of the future. I’m not denying him the flat because I’m mean, but because I’m afraid—afraid I’ll be left with nothing. I force him to “struggle”, then undermine him by paying his bills—worried he’ll fail and be upset. I demand adult behaviour, yet treat him as a child—incapable and clueless. But he and Lara just want to start life beautifully. With a carriage and a harp. Foolish, extravagant—but that’s their right. If they pay for it themselves. First, I arranged for the tenants to move out. A month later, I called Misha: “Come over. We need to talk.” They arrived, anxious, expecting a battle. I set out tea, and placed the keys to my mother’s flat on the table. “Take them. Don’t get too excited—it’s not a gift. The flat is yours for a year. During that time, decide: mortgage, or stay on new terms. I’ll lose a year’s rent, but it’s my investment—not in your wedding, but in your chance of being a family, not flatmates.” Lara’s eyes widened. Misha gazed at the keys, baffled. “Mum… What about Katie?” “She’ll get her own surprise. You’re grown-ups now. Your life is your responsibility. We’ll be here simply as parents who love, but don’t rescue.” The silence was deafening. “And the wedding?” Lara asked, uncertain. “The wedding?” I shrugged. “Whatever you want. If you find the money for a harp, have a harp.” *** They left, and I was terrified. Terrified they’d fail. Or resent me forever. And yet, for the first time in years, I could truly breathe. Because I finally said “no”—not to them, but to my own fears. I let my son step fully into adult, complicated, independent life. Whatever it might be… *** Now let’s see it through the son’s eyes. Lara and I dreamed our wedding would be magical. But Katie’s divorce ended those plans. When Mum said a fancy wedding was pointless, something snapped inside. “Why do you celebrate each anniversary out? You could do it at home!” I snapped. I wanted to wound her. Yes, they bought me a car. But I never asked! Now they throw the loan repayments in my face. They renovated our flat—for us, they said. But now we can’t live there. Granny’s one-bed place is a “sacred cow”—more important than her only son’s marriage! So what now? How do we show the world—show ourselves—that we are a couple? Lara said quietly, “I have nothing to give you. My parents can’t help—they’ve got a mortgage.” “You give me yourself,” I said, trying to console her. But I was angry—not with her, but the unfairness. Why does it all fall on my parents? And why do they help with a bitterness, as if every pound spent is another nail in their coffin? This help stings with guilt. Unspoken grievances swirled in the air. Suddenly, the phone rang. Mum’s voice was strange, firm. “Come over. We need to talk.” We went, dreading it. Lara squeezed my hand. “She might refuse to help with the wedding,” she whispered. “Maybe,” I nodded. *** On the table—my grandmother’s flat keys. The ones from my childhood. “Take them,” said Mum. Her short speech was revolutionary: one year, a decision, no more “wallet and background.” Our old excuse—“nowhere to live”—vanished, our hope of “parents will fix it”—gone. I took the keys—they felt heavy and cold. In that moment, I saw truth: We always wanted things, were offended, but never really spoke to our parents: “Mum, Dad, we get your fears. Let’s discuss how we move forward without tearing you apart?” No. We just waited for them to guess our wishes and fulfil them—smiling, unconditionally, like childhood. “The wedding?” asked Lara, uncertain. “Your wedding?” Mum shrugged, “If you find a harp, have a harp.” We stepped outside. I fingered the keys in my pocket. “What now?” asked Lara—not just about the flat. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Now it’s our problem…” In this new and frightening responsibility, there was something wild—a pure freedom. The first step: deciding if we really need a carriage and a harp. Traditions are fine, but should be built on more than just one extraordinary day… *** And how did it end? Misha and Lara’s adult life began the very next day. Finally, together! Living in their own flat. It’s not theirs yet, but still. Small, but cosy. Fresh renovations. No one else! At first, guests every day—because, after all, freedom! A month later, an unexpected shared itch—they wanted a dog! Not a little one—a big one! Turns out Lara always dreamed of one, but her mum never allowed. Misha had a dog once, years ago—it ran away, breaking his heart. And so the final piece of their happiness appeared quickly—a retriever named Lexus. Three months old, immediately running the show: scratching the corners, chewing furniture, having accidents everywhere. When Vera Ignatievna visited, she was shocked—no one had told her there was a new resident. “Misha! Lara! How could you? Didn’t even ask!” Vera nearly cried inspecting the flat. “You need to watch a dog like this all the time and he’s left alone all day! Of course he’ll ruin things. And so much fur! Are you even cleaning? The smell! No! You need to give him back! Tomorrow!” “Mum,” said Misha, annoyed, “you gave us the flat for a year. Will you tell us how to live? Should I return the keys?” “Not at all,” Vera jumped in. “My word is my bond—a year is a year. But you must return the flat exactly as you received it. Got it?” “Got it,” they replied together. “And don’t expect me before then. I don’t want to see this.” *** Mum kept her word—she didn’t visit. Rarely called. Four months later, Misha came home—they’d split up. He spent ages complaining: Lara was a bad housekeeper, cooked poorly, ignored the puppy, didn’t walk him. They had to return Lexus to the breeder. Not easy—took a week to convince. They’d bought dog food for three months, as per the breeder’s rules. Not cheap! “Did you rush things with Lara, son?” Vera asked, hiding a smile. “You wanted a carriage and a harp…” “A wedding? Mum, don’t be silly. Feel free to rent out granny’s flat.” “Why? Stay there, you’re used to it?” “No, I’d rather be home,” Misha replied. “Unless you object?” “I’m always ‘for it’,” Vera laughed. “Especially now the place is empty again after Katie and the kids left…”