**As Close As It Gets**
It’s a shame Emily Margaret didn’t come again, Rebecca whispered to her husband as their three-year-old grandson James blew out the candles on his birthday cake. She never got to meet her great-grandson… it stings.
“If she doesn’t want to, fine,” Edward snapped. “I messaged her two weeks ago. How many times do we have to invite her?”
“Maybe you should’ve called? Just to remind her? She’s not young anymore.”
“Beck, enough. She doesn’t forget what truly matters 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. Pride comes before family.”
Rebecca stayed quiet. Five years had passed, yet the hurt lingered like a fresh wound—stubborn, heavy, pointless. No one was truly at fault, and yet…
They’d met at a friend’s wedding. Back then, Rebecca wasn’t alone—she was with a man who turned heads. Tall, striking, effortlessly confident. The sort people call an “alpha.” Edward never dared approach her then. Later, he heard the man had left her, alone with their baby daughter. He arranged a “chance” meeting through a friend and began courting her—patiently, persistently. They married before little Sophie turned one.
Emily Margaret, his mother, received her new daughter-in-law with polite reserve. Neither pleased nor openly disapproving. She assumed it wouldn’t last—an older wife, someone else’s child… But Edward was happy. And for his sake, she kept her doubts to herself.
Only once did she speak them aloud. Edward decided to adopt Sophie legally, and his mother called him for “a serious talk.”
“Why take responsibility for another man’s child? She’s not your obligation.”
“Mum, Sophie isn’t ‘another man’s child.’ She calls me ‘Dad.’ No one else has ever been that to her.”
“But her real father exists. Even if he walked away—that truth doesn’t change.”
“Does it matter who fathered her when I’ve been there from the start?”
“It does! What if you and Rebecca divorce? You’d pay maintenance for a girl you have no legal duty to?”
“Mum! Do you honestly think we’ll divorce?”
“I just want you to think of your own future children. Your real ones.”
“And if we don’t have any? Then what?”
“You will! Your legacy should go to blood, not some stranger’s daughter!”
Edward stood.
“Enough. If you’re waiting for me to leave Rebecca and Sophie—don’t. I love them. And Sophie will be your granddaughter, whether you like it or not.”
Seven years later, Oliver was born. To Emily Margaret, he became the center of the universe. She doted on him, babysat him, spoiled him. Sophie faded into the background. Rebecca never brought it up—better not to stir trouble. Oliver and his grandmother were inseparable. When they traveled, she stayed with him. Sophie, sharp as ever, noticed.
“Why doesn’t Grandma spend as much time with me?”
“She’s just always dreamed of a grandson,” Rebecca explained. “Oliver looks like your dad at that age.”
Sophie grew older, but at fourteen, she sensed something was off. One evening, she came home and asked outright:
“Mum, tell me the truth—is Edward not my real father?”
“…Yes.”
“I thought so. But who cares? He’s my dad in every way that matters.”
And everyone breathed easier.
Then, on Oliver’s sixteenth birthday, during dinner, his grandmother raised her glass and announced:
“Oliver, time to start looking for a wife! When you find one, I’ll gift you a flat. I want to hold my great-grandchildren while I still can!”
Oliver chuckled.
“Gran, way too soon! Give it to Sophie—she’ll have great-grandkids for you faster.”
Emily Margaret froze. Then, calmly:
“But you’re not truly related. She has another father.”
The table went silent. The air turned thick. Oliver paled, glanced at his parents, and stood.
“Right. Party’s over.”
Guests trickled out. Rebecca screamed at her mother-in-law like never before.
“Why?! Why now? What were you trying to prove?”
“I won’t take that secret to my grave. He deserved the truth.”
“And who did that help?!”
She stayed silent.
After that, Oliver stopped calling his grandmother. He realized—his parents had acted out of love. But her? All those years, she’d smothered him while whispering poison about Sophie. Family wasn’t blood. It was choice. He cut ties.
Sophie got married. Photos of the grandchildren went ignored. No word when her great-granddaughter was born. Edward tried calling—nothing. Emily Margaret clung to her belief: real family was blood alone.
Then, at eighteen, Oliver announced his engagement. His parents were stunned.
“So young!”
“Well, Gran wanted great-grandkids,” he shrugged. “Guess she didn’t mean it.”
That’s when Emily Margaret took offense. She waited for an apology. Neither came—not even for her great-grandson’s birth.
Spring came; Rebecca fell seriously ill. Just as she recovered—a call:
“Emily Margaret’s in hospital. Broken hip.”
She hesitated. Then, shortly: “Tell her I’ll visit.”
Three days later, she stood in the ward with a bag of treats. The old woman faced the window.
“Brought you black treacle toffees. You’ve always liked them…”
Silence.
“We miss you.”
Still not turning:
“Is Oliver still angry?”
“Not anymore. He wants us to be a family again.”
They took her home with them. Everyone helped—at first occasionally, then daily. The past went unmentioned. Only once, when her great-grandson handed her a mug, saying,
“Here, Granny, there’s dinosaurs swimming in it,” she cried. Too late, but for the first time—it was happiness.
