Once Upon a Time…
Margaret had always been a well-behaved child—studious, responsible, never causing her mother or grandmother any trouble. But in her final year of school, everything changed when she fell in love. She skipped classes, became rude, and wore heavy makeup. One day, Veronica stumbled upon expensive cosmetics in Margaret’s drawer.
“Who gave you these?” she asked.
“A friend,” Margaret replied flatly.
“That’s generous. Who?”
“Jonathan.”
“Jonathan? And where does he get the money?” Veronica assumed he was a classmate.
“He works.”
And just like that, Veronica discovered her daughter wasn’t dating a boy—but a grown man, already graduated and employed.
“You’re just a child! Do you even understand what you’re doing?” Veronica snapped.
“I’m not a child. You were young when you had me—what’s the difference?” Margaret shot back.
Veronica faltered. “I wasn’t involved with a—wait, are you pregnant?”
“Yes, Mum,” Margaret blurted, her voice cracking. “You had me at eighteen. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it? You always said I was just like you.”
Veronica stared in horror.
“I’m leaving,” Margaret muttered, pushing past her mother.
“Where? We’re not finished! And what about your studies? Exams are coming!” Veronica hovered as Margaret tied her trainers.
Margaret straightened, blew a strand of hair from her face, and glared. “Lessons? Really, Mum? What about you? Who’s keeping *you* out late? Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
Veronica had thought herself discreet—had assumed Margaret was too self-absorbed to notice. With a victorious smirk, her daughter stormed out.
“Margaret!” Veronica called helplessly at the closed door.
She sank onto the sofa, heart pounding. Her little girl had grown up—and brought grown-up problems with her. Pregnant? Good Lord—how? She should’ve talked to her sooner, but she’d still seen her as a child. Panicked, she rang the only person who’d understand.
“Mum, it’s a disaster. Margaret’s seeing an older man—she’s pregnant!”
“Are you sure?”
“She admitted it! I don’t know what to do—she won’t listen!”
“Sounds familiar. You never listened to me either. Should’ve married that chap—what was his name?”
“I didn’t love him. This isn’t about me!”
“It *is*. Had you married, Margaret would’ve had a father. She wouldn’t be looking for one now.”
A painful truth.
“Mum, why didn’t you let me end the pregnancy?” Veronica whispered.
“Do you regret having her?”
“No, but—”
“There’s your answer. Imagine life without her. Don’t shout at her—it’ll only push her away.”
They talked for hours. That night, Veronica waited up. When Margaret returned, she followed her to her room. Her daughter peeled off a jumper, and Veronica’s gaze dropped to her bare stomach—usually slim, but now… rounded. She felt sick.
“How far along? Three or four months?” she murmured.
Margaret flinched, clutching the jumper to her chest.
“My darling…” Veronica pulled her close. “I’m not angry. I just want to help.”
Tears spilled. “He promised I wouldn’t get pregnant,” Margaret choked.
“Does he know?”
A nod. “He says we’ll marry after exams. He rents a flat nearby.”
“A local?”
“No. He graduated from university last year.”
“You’re keeping it? What about school?”
“I’ll manage… later,” Margaret mumbled, avoiding her eyes.
“Get some rest. Tomorrow’s a new day.”
But Veronica couldn’t sleep. Memories flooded back—her own schoolgirl crush, the reckless night she’d brushed off as harmless. When she’d told her mother, the boy’s parents had sneered: *She tempted our son. We won’t let her ruin his life.*
Mum had fired back: *My husband died when Margaret was three. Teach your boy to take responsibility instead of blaming girls.*
She’d pushed Veronica to study remotely, to keep the baby. It had been hell—Veronica had resented her for years. But Margaret had grown up, the past buried—or so she’d thought. Now history repeated itself.
At thirty-six, she’d be a grandmother.
That boy had vanished—sent away by his parents. For years, Veronica had feared love, until her widowed boss had pursued her. She’d refused him—no love there. Then, last year, a handsome younger colleague joined the office. Persistent, undeterred by her age or her daughter.
Oliver had proposed quickly. She’d hesitated—terrified to introduce him to Margaret. What if he preferred her younger reflection?
Guilt gnawed at her. She should’ve spent more time with Margaret—instead, she’d fallen in love. The next day, she begged her daughter to reconsider.
“Don’t throw your life away. I’ve been there—it’s hard. In a few years, you’ll see things differently—even him.”
“Did you ever regret having me?” Margaret asked suddenly.
“At first. But no—not now. I love you. That’s why I’m warning you.”
Sometimes, doubt flickered in Margaret’s eyes—then vanished. She snapped, insisting she’d marry Jonathan, that *her* life would be different.
Veronica confided in Oliver.
“That’s good! When she marries, we can too.” His joy stung.
In August, Margaret married Jonathan and moved into his flat. Still, Veronica delayed moving in with Oliver—until Margaret called.
“Mum, our landlady’s kicking us out—she found out I’m pregnant. Can we stay with you a few days?”
“Of course.”
But how would three of them live together? She’d be in the way. So she packed a bag for Oliver’s.
“Finally! You’re moving in tomorrow,” he beamed.
Yet unease clung to her. But the newlyweds seemed happy, the baby coming. She and Oliver thrived.
Weeks passed. No move-out plans. Veronica didn’t press—this was her daughter.
But doubts about Oliver lingered. What if he left her for someone younger? His flat—she’d have nowhere to go.
Then, at work, nausea hit. When the test showed two lines, she froze.
Oliver would be thrilled—he’d begged for a child. But a grandson and son the same age? Unnatural. She kept it secret.
Then chaos. Margaret gave birth. Veronica rushed to help—her daughter was still a child herself, overwhelmed. Exhausted, she collapsed at Margaret’s one evening, gasping for air.
“Mum, are you ill? Wait—are you *pregnant*?” Margaret shrieked. “You’re mad! At your age?”
“I’m thirty-six! Plenty of women have babies then!”
“And what about me? You’ll abandon me? We’ll be a laughingstock—pushing prams together? End it now! You *told* me to!”
“He’s not a boy. He’s a man,” Veronica hissed.
Margaret rang Oliver. The truth erupted—joy, then fury.
“She wants me to end it. Maybe she’s right—a son and grandson the same age?”
“Don’t you dare! I’ll never forgive you!”
He hovered, forbidding her to lift the baby. One weekend, while Margaret shopped, Veronica dozed beside little Paul. His cry startled her—she scooped him up, then gasped at a sharp pain.
Dizziness. Darkness. Blood.
Oliver raged: “*She* did this! Selfish—she knew you were pregnant!”
“Don’t say that! She’s my child—my *life*!”
“And me?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You don’t trust me. Did you *want* to lose our baby?” He dressed hastily.
“Oliver, no! Where are you going?”
“I need space.”
He left. What now? Margaret needed her—but one day, she wouldn’t. Then what? Alone. Tears came.
Unless—the flat was *his*. Would he evict her?
He didn’t return that night. Morning came—still gone. She rang her mother.
“Mum, can I come?”
“Of course. What’s happened?”
She packed her bags. As she called a cab, the lock turned.
“I knew you’d run. I stayed at work—couldn’t trust myself to speak. I’m not losing you.” He took her bag.
They talked for hours.
“You’re worn out. Margaret only thinks of herself—she’ll manage. You need rest. We’re taking holiday—no arguments.”
Resistance was futile. Soon, they flew to Spain. Veronica slept, walked, smiled again. She called Margaret—the world hadn’t ended. Her daughter coped alone.
“Mum, howAnd as she watched Oliver laugh with little Paul, tossing a giggling bundle into the air, Veronica realized that sometimes, happiness arrives late—but when it does, it’s worth every moment of the wait.
