**As Close As It Gets**
I couldn’t help but sigh as our three-year-old grandson, Oliver, blew out the candles on his birthday cake. “It’s a shame Granny Eleanor didn’t come again,” I murmured to my husband, James. “She’s never even met her great-grandson… It’s upsetting.”
“If she doesn’t want to, that’s her choice,” James replied sharply. “I messaged her two weeks ago. How many times do we have to invite her?”
“Maybe we should’ve called? Just to remind her? She’s not getting any younger…”
“Emma, enough. She doesn’t forget things that matter to her. If she hasn’t bothered to see her grandson in three years, then she doesn’t care. She has our number, she knows where we live. It’s just her pride overruling everything else.”
I stayed quiet. Five years had passed, but the hurt was still fresh—stupid, stubborn, lingering. No one was truly at fault, and yet…
James and I met at a friend’s wedding. Back then, I wasn’t alone—I was with a man who turned heads. Tall, striking, effortlessly confident. The sort people call an “alpha.” James never worked up the courage to approach me then. Later, he heard that the other man had left me, alone with a baby daughter. He arranged a “chance” meeting through a friend, then courted me patiently. We married before little Sophie turned one.
James’s mother, Eleanor, accepted me with polite reserve. She never celebrated our marriage, but she didn’t interfere, either. She assumed it wouldn’t last—another man’s child, an older wife… But James was happy. And for his sake, she kept her doubts to herself.
Only once did she speak them aloud. When James decided to adopt Sophie, she called him over for a “serious talk.”
“Why take on another man’s child?” she’d pressed. “Do you really think that’s your responsibility?”
“Mum, Sophie isn’t ‘another man’s child’ to me. She calls me ‘Dad.’ I’m the only father she’s ever known.”
“But there’s a biological one out there! Even if he walked away, that doesn’t change facts.”
“Does it matter who fathered her, if I’ve been there from the start?”
“Yes! What if you and Emma divorce? You’d be paying child support for a girl you had no legal obligation to!”
“Mum! Do you honestly think we’ll divorce?”
“I just want you to think about your future children. Your real ones.”
“What if we don’t have any? Then what?”
“You will! You should leave everything to your blood family, not this girl!”
James stood. “Enough. If you’re hoping I’ll abandon Emma and Sophie, you’re wasting your time. I love them. And Sophie *is* your granddaughter, whether you like it or not.”
Seven years later, Oliver was born—and to Eleanor, he became the center of her world. She doted on him, spoiled him, babysat him. Sophie, meanwhile, faded into the background. I never spoke up, not wanting to stir trouble. Oliver adored his grandma. She even stayed with him when we traveled. Sophie understood—she was bright. Once, she asked, “Why doesn’t Granny spend as much time with me?”
“She always dreamed of a grandson,” I explained. “Oliver looks just like your dad did at that age.”
Sophie grew up sharp. By fourteen, she sensed something was off. One day, she came home and asked point-blank: “Mum, tell me the truth—James isn’t my biological father, is he?”
“No…”
“I thought so. But what does it matter? He’s still my dad.”
We all breathed a sigh of relief.
Then, on Oliver’s sixteenth birthday, Granny raised her glass and announced, “Oliver, it’s time you found yourself a wife! When you do, I’ll give you a flat. I want great-grandchildren while I’m still spry!”
Oliver laughed. “Granny, I’m too young! Give it to Sophie—she’ll give you great-grandkids faster.”
Eleanor froze. Then, calmly: “But you two aren’t related. She has another father.”
The table fell silent. Oliver went pale. He glanced at us, then stood. “Right. Party’s over.”
Guests left awkwardly. I shouted at my mother-in-law like never before.
“Why?! Why now? What were you trying to do?”
“I didn’t want to go to my grave keeping secrets. He deserved the truth.”
“Who did that help?!”
She didn’t answer.
After that, Oliver stopped speaking to her. He realized James and I had acted out of love—while his grandmother had spent years doting on him, all the while undermining his sister. Blood wasn’t what made family. He cut ties.
Sophie got married. Granny ignored the photos. Not a word when her great-granddaughter was born. James called—silence. She clung to her belief: family was blood.
Then, at eighteen, Oliver announced he was getting married. We were stunned.
“It’s too soon!”
“Granny wanted great-grandkids,” he shrugged. “Guess she didn’t *that* much.”
And *that* was when Eleanor took offence. She waited for apologies. She didn’t even come for her great-grandson’s birth.
This spring, I fell seriously ill. Just as I recovered, a call came: “Eleanor’s in hospital—broken hip.”
I hesitated. Then, briefly: “Tell her I’ll visit.”
Three days later, I stood in her room with a bag of treats. She turned toward the window.
“Brought you some chocolate. You always liked it…”
Silence.
“We miss you.”
Still facing the window: “Is Oliver still angry?”
“No. He wants us to be a family again.”
We took Granny home with us. Everyone helped—first occasionally, then daily. No one brought up the past. Only once, when her great-grandson handed her a mug, saying, “Drink up, there’s dinosaurs in there,” did she cry. Too late, but at last—it was happiness.
