I have two children, each from a different marriage. My eldest is my daughter, Emily. Emily is now sixteen, and her father remains supportivehe regularly pays maintenance and stays in close contact with her. Though my first husband has since remarried and is raising two more children with his new wife, he never forgets his duty to our daughter.
My younger, five-year-old son, however, has not been so lucky. Two years ago, my second husband fell suddenly ill and, after just three days in hospital, he passed away. Though time has marched on, I still catch myself listening for his footsteps, expecting him to walk through the door, smiling as he wished me a good morning. The weight of his absence sometimes settles so heavily upon me that the tears come unbidden, and I find myself weeping the day away.
Throughout all this, my late husbands mother, Margaret, has done her best to support me. The loss hit her just as hard as it did me; after all, he was her only son. We clung to each other in our grief, sharing visits and long telephone calls, speaking of him often. At one point, we even considered living under the same roof again, but Margaret changed her mind. For seven years, we lived together and shared a warm friendshipone could almost call us confidantes.
I recall, quite clearly, when I first fell pregnant. For some reason, Margaret brought up the subject of a paternity test. Apparently, shed watched a programme on the telly about a man whod unknowingly raised anothers child for years. I told her straightaway how uncomfortable the idea made me.
If a man doubts the child is his, I said, then perhaps he ought to be just a weekend father, and nothing more.
Margaret assured me that she trusted I was carrying her sons child. Still, I always suspected that when the baby arrived, she might insist on a test. Yet she never raised the subject again.
This past summer, Margarets health took a serious turn for the worse. It became clear she needed to live closer to me, so we sought help from an estate agent to find her a new flat. As we were making arrangements, Margaret was hospitalised again, and the agent asked for her birth certificate. Unable to fetch it herself, I offered to collect it from her home.
Sorting through her drawer of papers, I came across the certificateand, tucked amongst the documents, I found something else. There it was: a paternity test. It seems that when my son was but two months old, Margaret had indeed arranged the test, which confirmed she was his grandmother.
I was livid when I saw the report. Despite her reassurances, Margaret had always harboured doubts. I confronted her about it, and she apologised, deeply remorseful for her lack of trust. Yet I cant seem to shake the sense of betrayal; for all these years, she kept this secret from me.
Now, part of me doesnt want to help Margaret anymoreher actions feel like a betrayal. Yet I know she has no one else to turn to, and I cannot bear to deprive my son of his grandmother. I will continue to help her, though the warmth and trust we once shared have forever cooled.
