**Grandfather’s Concerns**
It’s been six months since Edward Wilson lost his wife. The sharpest edge of grief had dulled, retreating somewhere deep beneath his ribs, freezing into a brittle shard that only cracked at the most inconvenient moments. A well-meaning neighbour might ask, *”How are you holding up, Eddie? Must be hard being on your own now.”* And just like that, the pain would glisten in the old man’s eyes.
*”I’ve grown weak—never used to be this way,”* he’d think, then immediately answer himself: *”Then again, I’d never known loss like this before.”*
He’d lived in the same village since he was a young man. Retired now, he’d imagined endless free time stretching ahead. But since his wife’s passing, the days dragged, and Edward found himself adrift. Nothing held meaning anymore… except perhaps the quiet solace of Sunday service.
His daughter Alice had married and moved to the city, and his grandson Oliver was nearly ready for school. At the start of summer, Alice and her husband Paul brought the boy to visit.
*”Dad,”* Alice started, nudging Oliver forward, *”consider this your new project. Mum used to dote on him, but now it’s your turn—time to make a proper lad out of him.”*
*”And his father doesn’t bother?”* Edward asked.
*”Paul’s never so much as held a hammer. You know him—he’s a music man. The accordion’s his life. We’ll enrol Oliver in music classes this winter, maybe even with his dad. But a lad ought to have balance. So—help us out. I want my son to take after you: skilled, hardworking.”*
Edward smirked and looked down at the boy.
*”Right you are, love. Fine. I’ll teach him all I know… while I still can.”*
*”Don’t say that,”* Alice cut in. *”You’ve got years ahead. Just help with Oliver, that’s all.”*
That same day, grandfather and grandson ventured into the workshop. They surveyed the workbench, the shelves of tools, and set about carving out Oliver’s own little corner.
Edward repurposed an old desk for him, sawing down the legs and lining the top with galvanised sheet metal. The boy needed proper tools too—small ones, sized for his hands. He hung a shelf above Oliver’s workbench, stocking it with miniature hammers, screwdrivers, pliers, a tiny saw, and a set of pincers. In round metal tins—relics from Edward’s own childhood, once full of toffees—he sorted nails of every size.
Oliver was enthralled, trailing his grandfather with endless questions. Alice barely dragged them in for lunch before they disappeared again, busy with *”men’s work.”*
*”There. A good start,”* Edward declared by evening. *”Enough for today. Tomorrow, we’re up early—fishing. So let’s sort the rods and get to bed.”*
The summer days passed joyously. Alice and Paul noticed Edward standing taller again, the old spark returning to his eyes.
*”You know, love,”* Paul murmured to Alice when Edward wasn’t listening, *”for a schoolteacher, you’ve got a knack. A proper lad for our boy, and your dad’s come back to life.”*
*”Everyone needs attention—young or old,”* Alice said softly. *”Can’t let him fade. We’ll visit more often. Thank God for Oliver—better medicine than any bottle. A grandson’s like sunshine.”* She sighed and headed for the garden, just as her mother had done. The flowerbeds and vegetable patch had to stay tidy, just like before, so Edward wouldn’t feel the world had crumbled with her passing.
Alice’s holiday ended, and she returned to the city, but Paul and Oliver stayed on, helping Edward with everything.
Then autumn came, and Oliver started school. For the occasion, Edward travelled to town—smart in a suit and tie he hadn’t worn in a decade—standing proudly at his grandson’s first assembly. As the anthem played, Edward straightened, gripping Oliver’s hand.
In that moment, he made a silent promise: no more moping. He’d devote whatever strength he had left to Oliver, to Alice, to living.
Back in his village that evening, Edward sat at the kitchen table with a blank sheet before him. Like a schoolboy himself, he picked up a pen—rusty from disuse—and began drafting a list. Plans for next summer, for Oliver’s return.
The list grew longer each day: a play area, a swing, a sandpit, a climbing rope hung from the great oak by the lane—just like in his own childhood. Repairs to the little footbridge by the stream.
A second sheet appeared—*”the accounts”*—tracking lumber, nails, paint, sand. So much to do! He had to finish before winter, before the snows came.
Now Edward woke early, scribbling daily tasks on scraps of paper, determined to tick each one off.
Oliver visited often—holidays, weekends, breaks. The house came alive again: Alice mopped floors, baked pies, washed curtains.
Edward, Paul, and Oliver tinkered in the workshop, stocked firewood for the sauna, skied through the woods.
On Father’s Day, Alice surprised them all with matching camouflage jackets. Such laughter! And with Mother’s Day nearing, Edward prodded, *”What would you like, love? Don’t hold back—name it.”*
*”Anything?”* Alice smiled. *”Well then… there’ll be another Wilson soon. Don’t know who yet—but there’s a fair chance it’s a girl.”*
Silence—then cheers erupted. Edward wiped his eyes as Paul spun Alice around and Oliver bounced at his side.
*”Thank the Lord,”* Edward breathed. *”Your mother always wished for a granddaughter. Though another lad would be just fine, too.”*
Once the excitement settled over tea, Edward announced, *”No more brooding. With two grandkids to raise, I’ve no time for moping.”*
*”What if it’s another boy?”* he joked. *”Where’ll I find enough tools?”*
Oliver piped up, *”I’ll share mine, Grandad. We’ll manage. Brothers do.”*
