A Second Chance
Margaret Whitmore was no saint—she had her flaws like any grandmother—but John loved her unconditionally. He had no memory of his father, though his gran would mutter that it was better that way. When he pressed for answers, she’d only say, “You’ll understand when you’re older.” So he grew up careful not to pry, piecing things together on his own.
At five, she’d taken him in permanently, while his mother drifted in and out between her latest would-be husbands.
Then one day, his mother came to take him back. Gran sent John to his room, but he strained to hear the muffled argument from the kitchen. At first, only silence. Then the shouting started.
*”How long are you going to keep this up? That boy needs a mother, not some dolled-up tart!”* Gran’s voice was sharp.
*”So I’m supposed to bury myself alive, is that it? I’m trying to find a proper father for him!”* his mother shot back.
*”None of the men you chase are fit to raise a child. Most won’t love one that isn’t theirs—some can’t even love their own!”*
*”You don’t understand—you’re just—”* The words she spat after were ones John didn’t know, but their venom stung. Gran threw her out again.
When she stormed into his room, tense and twitchy, she ruffled his short hair before slamming the door behind her.
She’d vanish for weeks, then return—elated or furious, depending on how her latest hunt for a husband had gone.
After she left, the scent of her perfume lingered on his clothes and in his hair. He’d breathe it in, remembering.
As he grew older, he dreaded her visits. Each time, Gran would swallow bitter heart pills, slam dishes, and mutter about raising a heartless cuckoo who’d abandoned her only child. *”I’ve got nothing left in me—one more time, I swear, I’ll let her take you.”* John would huddle in his room, waiting out the storm.
Later, she’d come in with a plate of warm scones, softening. *”Why so quiet? Scared? Don’t be—I’d never hand you over. And don’t go holding it against me.”*
He never did. When he was hurt, he’d seek her out, and she’d soothe him. But she couldn’t burden an eight-year-old with her troubles. So he’d listen patiently to her grumbling, praying for the quiet, cozy peace they’d had before. By morning, their life would settle—until the next time.
John grew; Gran never changed. She seemed frozen in time. He thought it would always be that way.
In secondary school, she drilled it into him: *”Study hard. If you don’t get into uni, they’ll drag you into the army. I’m too old for that now—so if you want me around longer, you’d best get that degree.”*
He gave it everything. He couldn’t let her down—she was all he had. His mother had become a stranger. Motivation was simple: *Gran’s life.* He aced his A-levels and got into university. Played it safe, skipped the cutthroat courses, and enrolled in History—he loved reading, loved the past.
By second year, he fell for bright, lively Natalie. She thrived in crowds; he loathed them. But for her, he tagged along to parties and clubs. Gran saw straight through his dazed smiles, waiting up, sighing. He hated worrying her, tried to slip home before midnight. Natalie hated *that.*
One night, she gave him an ultimatum: *Leave early, and we’re through.* He didn’t want to lose her—but Gran’s frail heart couldn’t take the strain. He left anyway, sprinting home, furious. *Why doesn’t she just sleep? I’m not a child.*
The flat was dark—except for the light under Gran’s door. *What now?* He pushed it open.
She was on the floor, eyes shut, one arm twisted awkwardly beneath her. A spilled glass lay nearby.
*”Gran?!”* He dropped beside her.
Her eyelids fluttered. She tried to speak, but her mouth twisted uselessly.
*”Don’t you dare—hold on.”* He fumbled for his phone.
The ambulance came fast. *”A little longer, and it would’ve been too late,”* the paramedic said.
Guilt gnawed at him. How had he missed it? The dizziness, the pills, the way she clung to furniture. If he’d skipped that party—
They took her to hospital. For the first time, he was truly alone. He visited daily, bringing chicken broth and juice Natalie made—until she vanished back into the clubs. They split.
Three weeks later, Gran came home. She shuffled now, unsteady. One hand hung limp; her words slurred. But soon, John learned her sounds.
Now he spun like a hamster on a wheel—lectures, groceries, cooking, feeding her, cleaning. Gran fumbled everything. And coursework piled up.
Then the nurse arrived. Lucy, young, with a plait down her back. *Do they still make them like that?* She came daily, giving injections, teaching exercises for Gran’s hand. *”It won’t happen overnight—don’t quit.”* She scolded him for skipping practice.
*”No time. Between shopping, cooking, uni—I can’t even make porridge right.”*
She marched to the kitchen. *”Like this.”*
*”You’re good at this. I never learned—Gran always cooked.”*
*”You’ll manage. It’s nothing tricky.”* She blushed when he praised her. *”I’ll come tomorrow, work with your gran.”*
Soon, Gran’s hand moved better. Her speech cleared.
*”What’ll we do without you? She lights up when you’re here,”* John said one evening.
*”And you?”* Lucy asked softly.
*”Me too.”* It was true.
*”I could stop by after shifts, if you’d like.”*
*”That’d be brilliant.”*
She did more than exercises—helping with soup, porridge. Bit by bit, she became irreplaceable. Gran walked steadier now, with a cane, and spoke clearer.
His mother never visited—probably landed a new husband. Last time, he’d hated how she caked her face, masking wrinkles. Her perfume turned his stomach. Lucy didn’t wear any.
Before the wedding—small, but still a wedding—he went to invite her. She wasn’t home. *”Haven’t seen her in ages,”* a neighbor said. *”Moved away, I think.”*
After graduation, the university offered him a teaching post. Gran wasn’t fully recovered but stronger now—even managed chores. Money was enough. Time for a child. When he told Lucy, she blushed.
*”Already are. I’m pregnant.”*
His mother reappeared when Lucy’s bump was showing. Why now? She screamed her usual script—*ungrateful son, didn’t even invite me.* Said nothing of Gran’s stroke. Spat venom, slammed the door. Gran—so painstakingly rebuilt—collapsed. The ambulance took her, but the second stroke killed her.
At the wake, his mother wept drunkenly about *”orphans now.”* Next morning, his keys were gone.
*”Take mine,”* Lucy said. *”I’ll be home late.”*
At work, they sent him back—gave him the day to grieve.
He found his keys on the side table—and muddy footprints. The bedroom door creaked open. His mother was rifling through drawers.
*”So you stole them?”*
She jumped.
*”Looking for these?”* He upended Gran’s teacup onto the table—gold earrings with fat rubies, a ring.
For a heartbeat, she stared, ravenous. Then she grabbed them.
*”Mine. She promised. Kept them out of spite.”*
He hated her then.
*”Take them. Go.”*
*”Kicking out your mother? After all I did—this flat’s half mine!”* A coughing fit cut her off. She fled. He never learned what she’d *done*, besides birth him.
She came back nearly a year later. Little Daisy was crawling. His mother looked older, thinner—no more makeup. The husband hunt had worn her down. She reached for the baby, eyes soft. Lucy tensed, but John stopped her.
*”Give her a chance.”*
His mother played on the floor, and Daisy giggled, reaching for her.
*”She’s smiling at me!”* She turned, beaming. *”Can I come again?”*
*”Whenever you like.”*
She wasn’t much of a mother—Gran had been right. But she *was* his mother. She visited daily. Lucy relaxed, even left them alone to shopDaisy would never know the grandmother who raised him, but in the end, his mother became the kind of grandmother she never was as a mother.
