As Close as It Gets
“It’s a shame Grandma Eleanor didn’t come again,” whispered Emily to her husband, as their three-year-old grandson Alfie blew out the candles on his birthday cake with fierce determination. “She hasn’t even met her great-grandson… It’s just sad.”
“If she doesn’t want to, so be it,” David replied sharply. “I messaged her two weeks ago. How many times do we have to invite her?”
“Maybe we should have called? Just to remind her? She’s not getting any younger…”
“Em, stop. She doesn’t forget things that truly matter. If she hasn’t bothered to see her grandson in three years, then she clearly doesn’t care. She has our number, she knows where we live. It’s just her pride talking.”
Emily stayed silent. Five years had passed, and the hurt still felt fresh—like a wound that refused to heal. Stubborn, pointless, lingering. And in the end, no one was really to blame. And yet…
David had met Emily at a friend’s wedding. Back then, she hadn’t been alone—she was with a man who commanded attention. Tall, confident, effortlessly magnetic. The kind they call “alpha.” David hadn’t dared approach her then. But later, he heard the man had walked out on Emily, leaving her with their baby daughter. So he arranged a “coincidental” meeting through a friend. And then he courted her—patiently, persistently. They married just before little Sophie turned one.
David’s mother, Eleanor, had received her new daughter-in-law with polite restraint. She didn’t object, but she didn’t celebrate either. She’d assumed it wouldn’t last—another man’s child, a wife older than her son… But David was happy. For his sake, she kept her doubts to herself.
Only once did she say what she really thought. When David decided to adopt Sophie, his mother called him in for a “serious chat.”
“Why would you take responsibility for another man’s child? Legally, she’s not yours.”
“Mum, Sophie isn’t just ‘another man’s child.’ She calls me ‘Dad.’ I’m the only father she’s ever known.”
“But her real father is out there somewhere! Even if he walked away, that doesn’t change the facts.”
“Does it matter who fathered her if I’ve been there from the start?”
“Of course it matters! What if you and Emily divorce? You’ll be paying child support for a girl you’re not even legally tied to!”
“Mum! Do you seriously think we’ll divorce?”
“I just want you to think about your future. About your *real* children.”
“And what if we don’t have any? Then what?”
“You will! You should leave everything to your bloodline, not to some stranger’s girl!”
David stood up.
“Enough. If you’re waiting for me to leave Emily and Sophie, you’ll be waiting forever. I love them. And Sophie *is* your granddaughter, whether you like it or not.”
Seven years later, little Oliver was born. And suddenly, Eleanor’s world revolved around him. She doted on him, spoiled him, babysat him whenever she could. Sophie, meanwhile, seemed to fade into the background. Emily never brought it up—she didn’t want to rock the boat. Oliver and his grandmother were inseparable. Even when the family went on trips, she stayed with him. Sophie, sharp as ever, noticed.
“Why doesn’t Grandma spend as much time with me?”
“She’s always dreamed of a grandson,” Emily explained. “Oliver looks just like your dad did as a boy.”
Sophie grew up, but by fourteen, she knew something was off. One day, she came home and asked outright:
“Mum, tell me the truth—David isn’t my real father, is he?”
Emily hesitated. “No…”
“I kind of figured. But so what? He’s still my dad. The only one that counts.”
And with that, everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
But then, when Oliver turned sixteen, disaster struck. At his birthday dinner, Eleanor raised her glass and announced:
“Oliver, it’s time you found a wife! When you do, I’ll give you a flat. I want great-grandchildren while I’ve still got the energy!”
Oliver smirked. “Gran, bit early for that! Give the flat to Sophie—she’ll have grandkids for you *way* faster.”
Eleanor froze. Then, calmly, she said:
“But you two aren’t really related. She has a different father.”
The table fell silent. The air was thick with tension. Oliver paled. He looked at his parents. Then he stood up.
“Let’s go, guys. Party’s over.”
As guests shuffled out, Emily unleashed a storm on her mother-in-law—the likes of which she’d never done before.
“Why?! Why now? What were you trying to achieve?”
“I didn’t want to die with that secret. He deserved to know the truth.”
“And who exactly is better off for it?!”
Eleanor said nothing.
After that, Oliver stopped calling his grandmother. He realized now—his parents had acted out of love. But his gran… all those years, she’d doted on him while quietly belittling Sophie. Family wasn’t about blood. And so he cut ties.
Sophie got married. Her grandmother ignored the wedding photos. Not a word when the first great-grandchild was born. David tried calling—silence. Eleanor clung to her belief: family was blood.
Then, at eighteen, Oliver announced he was getting married. His parents gaped.
“Too young!”
“Gran wanted great-grandkids, didn’t she?” he shrugged. “Guess she didn’t want them *that* much.”
And that’s when Eleanor truly took offence. She waited for apologies. But she never even came to meet her great-grandson.
Then, one spring, Emily fell seriously ill. Just as she recovered—a call:
“Eleanor’s in hospital. Broken hip.”
Emily said nothing. Then, quietly: “Tell her… I’ll visit.”
Three days later, she stood in the hospital room with a bag of treats. Eleanor turned to the window.
“Brought you some Kendal Mint Cake. You always liked it…”
Silence.
“We miss you.”
Still facing away: “Is Oliver still angry?”
“No. He wants us to be a family again.”
They took Eleanor home with them. Everyone helped—at first occasionally, then daily. No one spoke of the past.
Except once, when her great-grandson handed her a mug and said, “Here, Gran. There’s dinosaurs floating in it.”
And for the first time—far too late, but still—she cried. Not from sorrow. But because, just this once, she was happy.
