**Second Chance**
Margaret Elizabeth was an ordinary grandmother, with her flaws and weaknesses. But John loved her unconditionally. He had no memory of his father, though Grandma often muttered that it was better that way. When John pressed for answers, she’d only say, *”You’ll understand when you’re older.”* So he stopped asking, piecing things together on his own.
At five, Grandma took him in, and after that, his mother drifted in and out of his life between her endless string of suitors.
One day, when she showed up to take him back, Grandma shooed John to his room. He quietly played, straining to hear the argument in the kitchen. At first, it was just muffled voices—then shouting.
*”How much longer? A boy needs a mother, not some painted-up tart!”* Grandma snapped.
*”Am I supposed to bury myself alive? I’m trying to find a husband—a father for him!”* his mother shot back.
*”The sort of men you chase aren’t father material. Most won’t love another man’s child—they abandon their own, let alone someone else’s!”*
*”You wouldn’t understand—you’re just a—”* The words his mother hurled next were ones John didn’t recognize, but their venom was unmistakable.
Grandma threw her out again.
She stalked into his room, tense and jittery, ruffled his short-cropped hair, and left, slamming the door behind her.
His mother vanished for weeks, then reappeared—giddy or furious, depending on how her latest romance fared. After she left, the scent of her perfume lingered on his clothes and hair, and John would breathe it in, remembering.
As he grew older, he dreaded her visits. After each one, Grandma would swallow bitter heart pills, rattle dishes, and mutter about raising a heartless cuckoo who abandoned her own child. *”I’ve got no strength left—next time, I’ll let her take you!”* John would huddle in his room, waiting out the storm.
Eventually, Grandma would come in, setting a plate of warm scones or jam tarts on his desk. *”Why so quiet? Scared? Don’t be—I won’t let her take you. And don’t be cross with me.”*
John understood. When he was upset, he’d cry to her, and she’d soothe him. But Grandma couldn’t complain to an eight-year-old. How could he comfort her? So he listened patiently to her grumbling, praying for peace to return—until his mother’s next visit shattered it again.
To John, Grandma never aged. She seemed frozen in time, and he assumed she always would be. In sixth form, she’d chide him: *”Study hard. If you don’t get into university, it’s the army for you—and I’m too old to bear that. If you want me around a bit longer, do your best.”*
He did. He couldn’t fail her—she was all he had. His mother had faded into a stranger. So he aced his A-levels and chose history—not the most prestigious degree, but safe, affordable. He loved reading, loved the past.
In his second year, he fell for a bright, vivacious girl named Emily. She adored parties; John loathed them. But for her, he went—staying out late, ignoring Grandma’s worried sighs. She always waited up, and guilt gnawed at him. Then Emily gave him an ultimatum: *”Leave early, and we’re done.”*
That night, he ran home, furious. *Why couldn’t she just sleep? I’m not a child!*
He found her on the floor, one arm twisted beneath her. A spilled glass of water gleamed nearby.
*”Gran?!”* He dropped to her side.
Her eyes fluttered—she tried to speak, but her mouth twisted uselessly.
*”Don’t you dare die—just hold on!”* He fumbled for his mobile.
The paramedics arrived just in time. *”Any later, and it would’ve been too late,”* one muttered.
Guilt choked him. How had he missed her dizziness, the way she clung to furniture? If he’d stayed home—if he’d been there—
They took her to hospital. For the first time, John was truly alone. He visited daily, bringing chicken broth Emily had made—though she soon disappeared back into the party scene. They broke up.
Three weeks later, Grandma came home. She shuffled now, gripping walls for balance. One arm hung limp; her speech slurred. But he learned to understand her.
Life became a whirlwind: lectures, groceries, cooking, cleaning. His hands were full—and then a young nurse, Lucy, arrived. He thought women like her—gentle, kind, wearing her blonde hair in a neat plait—didn’t exist anymore. She came daily, deftly administering injections, guiding Grandma’s stiff arm through exercises.
*”Results take time—don’t give up,”* she chided when John neglected the routine.
*”I’m swamped—shopping, cooking, studying… I can’t even make porridge right!”*
Lucy marched into the kitchen, showing him how.
*”You’re brilliant at this. I’m useless—Gran always cooked.”*
*”You’ll learn. It’s simple.”* She blushed at the praise. *”I’ll come tomorrow.”*
Before long, Grandma improved.
*”What would we do without you? She brightens up when you’re here,”* John admitted one evening.
*”And you?”* Lucy asked softly.
*”Me too.”*
*”I could stop by after work sometimes… if you’d like.”*
*”I’d like that.”*
She became indispensable—helping with meals, coaxing Grandma to walk, to speak. His mother stayed absent—probably caught in some new romance. The last time she’d visited, caked in makeup, her perfume had nauseated him. Lucy wore none.
He went to invite her to the wedding—small, but still a wedding. Her neighbour hadn’t seen her in ages. *”Gone off somewhere.”*
After graduation, the university offered John a teaching post. Grandma, though not fully recovered, grew stronger. Money was steady—enough to think of children. When he told Lucy, she flushed.
*”There’s already one coming.”*
His mother reappeared when Lucy’s belly rounded. She shrieked about ingratitude—*”Not even a wedding invite!”*—never asking after Grandma. After her tantrum, Grandma collapsed. The second stroke took her.
At the funeral, his mother wept drunkenly. *”We’re orphans now, just you and me.”*
The next morning, his keys were missing.
*”Take mine,”* Lucy offered.
Sent home from work, he found muddy footprints in the hall. His mother was rifling through drawers.
*”So you stole them?”*
She jumped.
*”Looking for this?”* He emptied Grandma’s teacup onto the table—gold earrings with fat rubies, a ring.
She stared greedily, then snatched them up. *”Mine. She promised!”*
Disgust twisted his gut. *”Take them. Go.”*
*”Throwing out your own mother? After all I—”* A coughing fit cut her off. She fled.
She returned a year later. Little Daisy was crawling by then. His mother looked older, frailer—the hunt for love had worn her down. When she reached for the baby, Lucy tensed, but John stopped her.
*”Give her a chance.”*
His mother played with Daisy, who gurgled and grinned. *”She’s smiling at me!”*
*”Can I… come again?”* she asked on her way out.
*”Whenever you like.”*
She was, as Grandma had said, a hopeless mother. But she was still his.
And so she came—every day. Lucy relaxed, even leaving them alone. Daisy adored her.
They say grandmothers love grandchildren more than their own children. His mother proved it true. She’d had her wild years—now she poured what remained into Daisy.
And they say a grandmother is a mother’s second chance.
John gave his that chance.
