**The Difficult Choice**
“Gran, I don’t want porridge,” Alfie muttered, shoving his plate away cautiously, keeping his eyes fixed on Margaret.
Her daughter used to do the same—if she didn’t want soup or porridge, she’d nudge the bowl toward the edge until it toppled to the floor. But how did he know that? He couldn’t have seen it. Grown-up Emily had never done it. Was it the genes?
Little Emily had been scolded for it, but Margaret couldn’t bring herself to be angry with Alfie.
“Stop,” she commanded before the plate reached the edge. “If you don’t want it, don’t eat it. Have some tea.”
“Can I have a sweet?” Alfie asked.
“No sweets. You had one before breakfast—ruined your appetite. Nothing till lunch.”
“But Graaan,” Alfie whined.
Tears welled in his eyes, his lips quivering, moments from a wail. The little scoundrel knew exactly how his tears affected her.
*And he cries just like his mum did.* Margaret felt herself giving in—until the doorbell rang.
“Take a biscuit,” she said, walking out.
“I don’t want biscuits!” Alfie called petulantly after her.
Margaret opened the door. There stood Henry, her son-in-law and Alfie’s father.
“Hello, Margaret. You look lovely as always,” he said, smiling.
It pleased her, though she replied stiffly, “You too. Come in.”
“Dad!” Alfie dashed into the hall.
Henry scooped him up, hugging him close. “You’re getting so heavy! Growing like a weed!” His eyes brimmed with tenderness.
“What did you bring me?” Alfie squirmed free.
“Have you been good? Listened to Gran?” Henry glanced at Margaret. She stayed silent, looking away.
“Out with it, what mischief have you done?” Henry ruffled his son’s hair.
“I didn’t eat my porridge. Got in trouble at nursery—fought with Oliver. He started it! He pushed me and took my toy truck. I hit him back, but only I got told off!”
“That’s unfair,” Henry muttered.
“Alfie, go play. I need to talk to your dad.”
Henry lowered him, pulled a toy car from his coat, and handed it over. Alfie scampered off happily. Henry followed Margaret to the kitchen and sat while she cleared the half-finished porridge.
“That Oliver’s mother gave me an earful. Demanded I punish Alfie. But Oliver’s always shoving kids around, then tattling. Children fight—it’s normal. Still, don’t encourage him hitting back,” she chided.
“I can’t thank you enough for looking after my boy. I couldn’t have managed without you.”
“Of course. I’m his gran.”
*Liar.* Yes, Alfie was her grandson, but she looked more his mother than grandmother.
“Margaret, maybe we should hire a nanny?” Henry always used her full name, underscoring respect. She stiffened.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She glanced at him—he was watching her. A woman always knows when a man’s gaze lingers. It thrilled and unsettled her.
She turned to the sink, turned the tap on, then off. *God, I’m nervous. The last thing I need is him noticing.* She faced him again, arms crossed.
“No nanny. Think a stranger would care for him better? I won’t hear of it.”
“But he’s demanding. You could have your own life…” Henry hesitated, clearing his throat.
“You could have yours too.”
Their eyes met, then darted away.
She’d never understood what a man like Henry saw in her flighty, reckless daughter. He was fifteen years older than Emily—closer to Margaret’s age than hers. But he’d loved Emily; she never doubted that. (And, secretly, envied it.)
When Emily announced the engagement, Margaret objected.
“He’s too old for you, too clever. What do you even have in common?”
“Mum, we love each other. I’m twenty, not a child. If you say no, I’ll elope. You’re just jealous,” Emily had shot back.
“Wait, get to know each other.” *Maybe he’ll see sense and leave.* “You’d suit someone your own age.”
“They’re all boring. Tell me—if you’d met Henry before me, wouldn’t you have married him?” Emily grinned.
*Oh, if only she knew how right she was.*
She’d tried reasoning with Henry too—why would a grown man want a young wife who couldn’t even cook?
“She’ll learn. I adore her. She’ll be happy—trust me.” His certainty silenced her doubts.
They married. Emily dropped out of uni, immediately pregnant. She tried so hard to be a good wife—calling Margaret daily: *How do I roast beef? Why do my pancakes tear?* And she’d been a good mother.
Once Alfie started nursery, Emily returned to uni (distance learning). Henry got her a fake work contract for his firm. Then he bought the damned motorbike.
Margaret had raged: *They’re death traps! Get a car!*
“I taught her to ride. She’s careful,” Henry insisted.
“You *ride* too? I’d never have guessed,” Margaret scoffed.
“Why not?” He’d smirked, pulling her into a one-armed hug to soothe her.
She’d trembled. Thank God he let go without noticing—she’d have died of shame. *His mother-in-law, melting at his touch!*
But she was still a woman. A young woman.
Margaret had fallen hard at eighteen, gotten pregnant instantly. The terrified boy bolted. Her mother banned abortion, babysat while Margaret finished uni. She never married again—too afraid of another mistake.
*If only I’d met Henry back then.* Tall, steady, with that rugged charm. She understood why Emily adored him.
That day, she’d agreed to fetch Alfie from nursery. No foreboding. Emily had gone to watch motorbike races—not race, just spectate.
On their way back, the bikes had been in single file on the motorway when a 4×4 swerved from a side road, clipping the last two riders. The lad survived with a broken leg. Emily never woke from her coma.
Margaret had blamed Henry.
“Why’d you buy her that bike? Teach her to ride? She’d be alive! She wanted a girl next!” she’d screamed at his hollow-eyed grief.
She thought her pain was greater, not seeing his. She took Alfie—Henry didn’t protest. The boy was her anchor now.
Later, he’d tried reclaiming his son. But Margaret begged. Henry visited often, bringing toys and money. She knew she was selfish, but Alfie had replaced Emily.
A year passed. A drizzly summer loomed. Henry suggested a seaside holiday.
“Go,” Margaret said. “You two need time.”
“No—you’re coming too. You need a break. No arguments.”
“I’ll cramp your style. You’ll meet some girl there—” She turned to the rain-streaked window.
“Don’t be daft. We’re not going without you.”
“Fine,” she relented.
Truthfully, she feared sending a five-year-old abroad with just Henry. *What if…?*
After he left, she pulled sundresses from the wardrobe, holding them up, studying her reflection—until she caught Alfie watching from the sofa. Shame burned. *Who are you primping for? You’re his dead wife’s mother. He still loves her.*
At the hotel, Henry booked her a separate room. On the beach, she stole glances at his toned body, noted other women doing the same. He played with Alfie, building sandcastles, drawing flocks of mothers who flirted shamelessly.
Finally, she marched over. Henry scooted aside, making space.
“Alfie, put your T-shirt on—you’ll burn.”
The women’s faces fell. *They think I’m his wife.* The flirting stopped.
Sleepless nights tormented her—Henry’s body seared into her mind. She willed the holiday to end.
Then Henry gashed his foot on the sink. The gash wouldn’t stop bleeding—hospital stitches. The next day, she and Alfie went alone. Back at the hotel, the drowsy boy napped. She knocked on Henry’s door.
He lay atop the covers, shirtless, reading—his bandaged foot propped.
“Just checking on you,” she mumbled.
She turned to leave, but he grabbed her wrist.
“Don’t go. Sit?”
She stayed standing, eyes averted from his chest.
“I’ve wanted to say… don’t misunderstand… I loved Emily. I imagined she’d grow to look like you. You—”
“*What?*” She glared.
He stood, wincing, and pulled her close. “IfShe sighed, leaned into his embrace, and finally let herself believe that love could come again—even if it had found her in the most unexpected way.
