**A Second Chance**
Margaret Whitaker was an ordinary grandmother, with her quirks and flaws. But James loved her unconditionally. He had no memory of his father, though Margaret often said it was better that way. When James asked questions, she would only reply, *”You’ll understand when you’re older.”* So he grew up, stopped prying, and tried to figure things out on his own.
At five, Margaret took James in, and from then on, his mother drifted in and out of his life between her latest attempts to find a husband.
One evening, his mother arrived to take him back. Margaret sent James to his room. He played quietly, straining to hear the argument in the kitchen at first, but soon their voices rose—his mother’s sharp, Margaret’s firm.
*”How much longer? A boy needs a mother, not some painted-up floozy,”* Margaret snapped.
*”Should I bury myself alive then? I’m trying to find a husband—a father for him!”*
*”None worth having lurk where you’re looking. Most men won’t love another man’s child. They abandon their own—strangers stand no chance.”*
His mother spat back words James didn’t understand but knew were cruel. Margaret had enough and threw her out.
She stormed into his room, tense and irritated, ruffled his short hair, then left, slamming the door behind her.
She’d vanish for weeks, then return—happy or bitter, depending on how her latest hunt for a husband had gone. After she left, James caught traces of her perfume lingering on his clothes and hair. He’d breathe it in, remembering.
As he grew older, he dreaded her visits. Afterward, Margaret would swallow heart pills with a bitter smell, clatter dishes, and mutter about raising a heartless cuckoo who’d abandoned her only child. *”I’ve no strength left—next time I’ll just hand him over,”* she’d grumble. James hid in his room, waiting out the storm.
Then she’d come to him, set a plate of warm pancakes or jam tarts on his desk, and say softly, *”Why so quiet? Scared? Don’t be—I won’t let her take you. And don’t be cross with me.”*
He understood and never was. When he was upset, he went to her for comfort. But Margaret couldn’t complain to an eight-year-old—what could he do? So he listened patiently, wishing their quiet, cosy life would return. And it always did—until her next visit.
James grew; Margaret never seemed to age. To him, she was frozen in time. By sixth form, she nagged him to study hard.
*”If you don’t get into university, they’ll drag you into the army. I’m too old to bear that. So if you want me around longer, do your bit and get in.”*
He worked relentlessly—he couldn’t let her down. She was all he had. His mother faded from his life. Motivation was simple: Margaret’s survival. He aced his A-levels and chose history—not the most prestigious path, but solid, and he loved reading.
In his second year, he fell for a lively, pretty girl named Emily. She adored rowdy gatherings, which James hated, but for her, he endured student parties and clubs. Margaret noticed his distracted air and sighed, waiting up nights. He pitied her, cutting evenings short—but Emily despised that.
One night, she issued an ultimatum: leave early, and she’d leave him. Torn, he chose Margaret. Jogging home, he cursed her—*why couldn’t she just sleep?*
He found her collapsed on the floor, one arm twisted beneath her, a spilled glass nearby.
*”Gran?!”*
Her eyes fluttered; her mouth twisted, speech slurred.
*”Don’t you dare die—I’m calling help.”*
The ambulance arrived just in time. *”Any later, and she’d have been gone,”* the doctor said.
Guilt gnawed at him—he’d missed her dizziness, her unsteadiness, the pills she took. If he’d stayed home, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.
She spent weeks in hospital. For the first time, James was truly alone. He visited daily, bringing chicken broth Emily made—though she soon returned to clubbing. They split.
Margaret came home frail, shuffling timidly, one arm useless. But gradually, James learned to understand her mumbled words.
Now he raced like a hamster on a wheel: lectures, groceries, cooking, cleaning. She dropped everything. Studies demanded time, too.
Then a young nurse, Lily, arrived—blonde hair in a plait, kind and efficient. She scolded him for neglecting Margaret’s exercises.
*”No time—cooking, shopping, uni… I can’t even make porridge right,”* he admitted.
Lily showed him how. *”You’ll learn. I’ll come tomorrow.”*
Margaret improved—her arm moved, her speech cleared.
*”What will we do without you? She adores you,”* James said once.
*”And you?”* Lily asked bluntly.
*”Me too,”* he said—truthfully.
She began stopping by after shifts, helping with meals, becoming indispensable. Margaret grew steadier, even with a cane.
His mother stayed absent—likely wed at last. When she’d last visited, caked makeup masking age, her perfume had repulsed him. Lily wore none.
He tried inviting her to his wedding—small but real. But neighbours said she’d moved away.
After graduation, the university offered James a teaching post. Margaret, though not fully recovered, managed small tasks. Money was enough—time for a child.
*”There already is one,”* Lily murmured, blushing. *”I’m pregnant.”*
His mother reappeared when Lily was showing. Screaming about ingratitude, she stormed out—but not before Margaret, weakened by the row, suffered another stroke. This time, she didn’t recover.
At the funeral, his mother wept drunkenly about being *”orphaned.”* The next morning, James couldn’t find his keys.
*”Take mine,”* Lily said.
Sent home from work, he found his keys—and muddy footprints. His mother was rifling through drawers.
*”Looking for this?”* He tipped Margaret’s ruby earrings and ring onto the table.
She snatched them. *”Mine. She promised them.”*
*”Take them. Go.”*
She coughed, spat insults, and fled.
Almost a year later, she returned. Baby Charlotte was crawling. His mother looked older, thinner—no more disguises. Reaching for the baby, her face softened.
*”She’s smiling at me!”*
*”Can I come again?”* she asked hesitantly.
*”Of course,”* James said.
She visited daily. Lily relaxed, even leaving them alone. Charlotte adored her.
They say grandmothers love grandchildren more than their own children. His mother had run wild, spent her youth, but now poured what remained into her granddaughter.
And they say a grandmother is a mother given a second chance. So James gave his mother hers—to be the kind of grandmother Margaret had been to him.
