I have two children, each from different marriages. My eldest is my daughter, Emily. Shes sixteen now. Emilys father, Richard, pays his child support on time and stays in regular contact with her. Even though hes remarried these days and has two more children with his current wife, he never forgets about Emily.
My youngest, my five-year-old son, hasnt been as lucky. Two years ago, my second husband, Simon, suddenly fell ill and, within three days, passed away in hospital. Time has marched on, but I still cant accept that hes truly gone. There are days when I find myself listening for the front door, hoping hell walk through the house again, flash one of his easy smiles and wish me a good morning. When reality hits, all I can do is sit by the window and cry until it aches.
Through it all, Simons mother, Margaret, has been my greatest comfort. Its been just as shattering for herSimon was her only child. We leaned on each other through the sorrow, clinging to memories and keeping his spirit alive between us. We phoned most days, visited whenever we could, and always spoke of Simon with that mixture of pain and pride only grief can bring.
At one point we even considered moving in together, but Margaret changed her mind before it happened. For seven years, she and I were as close as family can be. In truth, we were friends, always trusting and supportive of one another.
But I remember when I was pregnant with my son, Margaret once mentioned a programme shed seen on the telly, where a man raised a child that turned out not to be his. She suggested a paternity test, but I bristled at the ideait felt deeply insulting.
If a man can look at his own child and doubt its his, he ought to just be a weekend dad and leave it at that! I snapped.
Margaret apologised and reassured me that she believed the baby was Simons. Even so, I always wondered if shed ever ask for the test once the baby arrived, but she never raised the issue again.
This summer, Margaret grew very poorly. Her health began to fail faster than any of us expected, so we agreed shed move closer to me. We even found an estate agent to help her find a new flat. Then her health took another turn, and she was back in hospital. The estate agent needed her birth certificate for paperwork, so I agreed to fetch it from her flat.
As I rifled through the old folder for Margarets certificate, I stumbled across another document that left me cold: a DNA test. It turned out Margaret had gone ahead with the paternity test when my son was just a couple of months old, confirmingbehind my backthat she was indeed his grandmother.
A fresh wave of anger crashed through me. All these years I thought we shared trust; now I saw that shed never truly believed me. When I confronted her, Margaret wept and apologised, admitting it was foolish and wishing shed never doubted me. But the damage is done. After holding onto such a secret for so long, I now feel betrayed.
Part of me doesnt want to help her anymorehow could I, after this? But another part knows she has no one else left. I cant strip my son of his grandmother. Ill help her still, if only for his sake. Yet whatever warmth or trust there was between usits vanished, like Simon through that very door I keep hoping hell walk through again.
