**A Difficult Decision**
“Gran, I don’t want porridge,” Makar murmured, pushing his bowl away cautiously, eyes fixed on Tamara.
Her daughter used to do the same—if she didn’t like soup or porridge, she’d nudge the bowl slowly until it fell right off the table. Where had he picked that up? He’d never seen it, never known. Grown-up Alice would never do such a thing. Was it really all in the genes?
She’d scolded her little daughter, but she couldn’t bring herself to be angry with Makar.
“Enough!” she commanded, stopping the bowl just in time. “If you don’t want it, don’t eat it. Have some tea.”
“Can I have a sweet?” Makar asked.
“No sweets. You already had one before breakfast, and it ruined your appetite. None until lunch.”
“But Graaaan,” he whined.
Tears welled up in his eyes, his lips trembled. The little scamp knew exactly how to get to her.
*He cries just like Alice did when she was little.* Tamara felt herself softening—until the doorbell rang.
“Take a biscuit,” she said, stepping away.
“I don’t *want* a biscuit!” he wailed at her back.
Tamara opened the door. There stood Eugene, her son-in-law and Makar’s father.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Thompson. You look wonderful, as always,” he said warmly.
It pleased her, though her reply was brisk. “And you. Come in.”
“Dad!” Makar charged into the hall.
Eugene swept the boy up into his arms. “You’re getting so heavy! Growing like a weed.” His eyes softened with affection.
“Did you bring me anything?” Makar wiggled free slightly.
“Depends. Did you behave? Listen to Gran?” Eugene glanced at Tamara, but she stayed silent, looking away.
“Out with it—what mischief did you get up to?” Eugene ruffled his son’s hair.
“I didn’t eat my porridge. Got in trouble at nursery for hitting Jack. He started it! He pushed me and took my toy car. So I hit him back. *I* got told off, not him!”
“Sounds unfair,” Eugene sighed.
“Makar, go to your room. I need to speak to your father.”
Eugene set him down, pulled a toy car from his coat pocket, and handed it over. Makar scampered off, delighted. Eugene followed Tamara to the kitchen, sitting at the table while she cleared away the half-eaten porridge.
“That Jack’s mother had plenty to say to me. She demanded I punish Makar. But Jack’s no saint—always shoving the other kids, then running to tell tales.” Tamara’s tone was sharp. “Boys will scrap, but you shouldn’t encourage him.”
“Mrs. Thompson, I can’t thank you enough for taking care of him. I couldn’t manage without you.”
“What else would I do? He’s my grandson,” she said, though she knew she was fishing for praise. Yes, Makar was her grandson—but looking after him, she felt more like his mother.
“Perhaps we should hire a nanny?” Eugene always addressed her formally, underlining her status. She winced.
“What nonsense! Do you think a stranger would care for him better than me? I don’t want to hear it.”
“But he’s a handful. You should have time for yourself—maybe even a chance at love again…” He faltered, clearing his throat.
“You could say the same for *yourself*.” Their eyes met, then darted away.
She’d never understood what a man like Eugene saw in her flighty, impulsive daughter. He was fifteen years older than Alice—closer in age to Tamara herself. But she never doubted he loved Alice. Sometimes, she envied her.
When Alice announced the engagement, Tamara tried to talk her out of it. “He’s older, wiser—you’re still a child. What could you possibly share?”
“Mum, we *love* each other. I’m twenty—not a little girl. If you say no, I’ll leave anyway. You’re just jealous,” Alice had retorted.
“Take your time. Get to know each other.” Tamara hoped Eugene would lose interest. “A man your own age would suit you better.”
“They’re all boring. Tell me, if you’d met Eugene first, wouldn’t *you* have married him?” Alice teased.
*She has no idea how right she is.*
Tamara tried reasoning with Eugene, too—warning him Alice was too young, too inexperienced.
“She’ll learn. I love her madly. She’ll be happy—you’ll see,” he’d insisted.
They married. Alice dropped out of university when she fell pregnant, but she tried hard—phoning Tamara daily for cooking tips. She even became a good mother. Once Makar started nursery, Alice re-enrolled, studying remotely while Eugene claimed she worked for his firm.
Then came that wretched motorcycle. Tamara had raged—far too dangerous, she said. Why not a car?
“I taught her to ride. She’s careful,” Eugene defended.
“You? I’d never have expected it.” Tamara threw up her hands.
“Why not?” He grinned. “Don’t worry—it’s under control.” He hugged her to soothe her. His touch sent a tremble through her. Thank God he didn’t notice—she’d have died of shame.
She’d been young once, too. Fell hard at eighteen, got pregnant. The boy panicked and left. Her mother forbid an abortion, babysat Alice while Tamara studied. She never remarried. Trust was too hard.
But if only she’d met Eugene then. Tall, strong, his face lined with life. She understood her daughter perfectly.
The day it happened, she’d picked Makar up from nursery. No premonitions. Alice had gone to watch motorbike races—not compete, just spectate.
On their way back, the bikes rode in formation. A speeding SUV miscalculated, clipping the last two riders. A broken leg for one; for Alice, a fatal brain injury.
Tamara blamed Eugene. “Why buy her that bike? Why teach her? She’d be alive!”
She hadn’t grasped his grief—only her own. She took Makar in. Eugene didn’t protest. He visited often, bringing toys, money, spending time with his son. Tamara knew she was selfish, keeping the boy, but Makar filled the void Alice left.
A year passed. Eugene suggested a seaside holiday.
“Go ahead,” Tamara agreed. “You two need time together.”
“No—you’re coming too. You need a break. No arguments,” he insisted.
“I’ll just be in the way. You’ll meet someone…”
“Nonsense. We won’t go without you.”
“Fine.” Truthfully, she was afraid to let them go alone.
Back home, she’d rummaged through her wardrobe, holding dresses to her frame, studying herself. Then Makar’s stare caught her. Shame burned. *Who are you primping for? You’re his late wife’s mother. He still loves her.*
At the hotel, Eugene booked her a separate room. On the beach, she stole glances at him—his strong frame, the way women eyed him. He played with Makar, building sandcastles, while nearby mums flirted shamelessly.
Tamara couldn’t bear it. She marched over. Eugene made space for her by the castle.
“Makar, put your shirt on—your back’s burning,” she said, ignoring the women. Their faces fell. *Good—they think I’m his wife.*
At night, she lay awake, remembering Eugene’s body, counting days till they left.
Then he gashed his foot on the sink. At the hospital, they stitched him up.
Next day, she and Makar went alone. He fell asleep; Tamara checked on Eugene. He lay on the bed, shirtless, magazine in hand.
“How’s the foot?” she asked stiffly.
He caught her wrist. “Stay.”
She didn’t sit. Couldn’t look at his bare chest.
“I’ve been meaning to say… Don’t misunderstand—I loved Alice. But as she aged, she’d have been like you. You…”
“What are you saying?” she snapped.
Eugene stood—balanced on one foot—and pulled her close. “Push me, and I’ll fall.”
His breath was warm, skin sun-kissed. Her head spun. For a moment, she melted—then shoved him away.
“This is wrong. I’m not Alice. I’m your mother-in-law!”
He winced. “I’ve never thought of you that way. Forgive me. This wouldn’t have happened if Alice were alive. But she’s gone. You’re you. We’re free. What’s wrong with that?”
She fled.
Later, they walked the beach, Makar between them.
*Like a family*, TamaraYears later, as she watched Makar play with his own children in the garden, she realized that love, in all its unexpected forms, had woven them into a family stronger than any judgment.
