I have two children. Each of my children has a different father. My eldest is a daughterher name is Phoebe, and shes sixteen now. Phoebes father pays child support faithfully and stays in close touch with her. Even though my first husband has remarried and started a new family with two more children, he never forgets his daughter.
My son, though, wasnt so lucky. Two years ago, my second husband fell gravely ill and, after just three days in hospital, he passed away. Even now, I struggle to accept it. I catch myself imagining the front door openinghell walk in, flash me that gentle smile, and wish me a good day. On those days, the tears dont stop.
All this time, I remained close with my late husbands mother, Margaret. It was no less painful for herafter all, he was her only son. Together, we weathered the storm, calling and visiting each other often, remembering him in every conversation.
At one point, we even considered moving in together, but Margaret changed her mind. Seven years have drifted by like leaves on a river. We always had a special bondyou might call us friends.
I remember when I was expecting, Margaret once brought up the idea of a paternity test, though Ive no idea why. Shed watched some television show where a man, after raising a child for years, discovered he wasnt the father. I dismissed it straight away.
If a father doubts his own child, hell never really carehell only see them on Sundays, I replied firmly.
Margaret insisted she believed the baby was her sons. And I was almost certain, when the baby arrived, that shed demand a test. But she stayed silent.
This summer, Margarets health took a serious turn. Her condition worsened, and I decided it would be best if she lived closer to me. I found an estate agent and started looking to buy her a flat.
When Margaret was admitted to hospital, the agent needed my late husbands death certificate. Margaret couldnt go herself, so I went to her flat to find it. Sorting through her papers, I came across something that made my heart dropa paternity test. It turned out, when my son was just two months old, Margaret had quietly ordered the test herself. It confirmed he was indeed her sons.
I was furious. All those years, she hadnt really trusted me. I confronted Margaret about it and told her everything I felt. Now, she apologises, saying shes sorry for all the trouble her suspicion caused. But I cant shake the sense of betrayalshe kept her doubts hidden from me for years.
Now, I find myself reluctant to help her. Yet I know shes got no one else, truly. I dont want to deprive my son of his grandmother, so Ill keep offering support. But the warmth and trust between usthats gone. It will never be the same as before.
