**The Glow in the Window: A Path to Happiness**
Victor—or Vicky, as his mum still called him—had long since passed the age of thirty-eight. But to Professor Annabelle Thompson of the local university, he would always be her little boy, her precious treasure. She couldn’t quite see him as a grown man capable of living his own life.
Annabelle had never married. She’d poured everything into her career and her son, whom she’d had at thirty-six. Born prematurely, Victor was a delicate child, and she’d devoted herself to making him strong. Her care knew no bounds: she dressed him, spoon-fed him, even brushed his teeth for him. By three, he was a sturdy, sweet little lad—but Annabelle still wouldn’t let him out of her sight.
Nursery school had been a disaster. The staff scolded her:
“Your boy can’t do a thing for himself! The others put on their own coats, but he just stands there waiting.”
She dismissed them with a sniff.
“He has a mother! If dressing him is too much effort, perhaps you’re in the wrong job.”
In the end, she pulled him out and hired a nanny who, predictably, coddled him just as much. Victor grew accustomed to having every decision made for him. By the time school rolled around, Annabelle had lined up another minder—a retired neighbour who watched his every move. She even wrangled a doctor’s note to exempt him from PE. Meals, clothes, routines—she chose it all.
“Eat your sandwich, love, you’re still peckish,” she’d say, carefully buttering the bread for ten-year-old Victor.
He’d obediently take a bite. Arguing with Mum was unthinkable.
Naturally thin though he’d been, lack of exercise and endless snacks took their toll. By twenty, he was a tall, pleasant-looking chap—if a bit round at the edges. He enrolled at the university where his mother taught, much to the amusement of her colleagues, who watched as Annabelle waited outside lecture halls to help him into his coat. His jackets even had mittens clipped to the sleeves—just in case he misplaced them.
Victor studied diligently and, after graduation, stayed on at the department—on Mum’s insistence. At twenty-six, she decided it was time he married. She picked the bride. Victor didn’t object. The marriage lasted barely a year.
“She wasn’t what she seemed!” Annabelle fumed. “Had the nerve to call Victor helpless and criticise how I raised him! Well, I put a stop to that.”
A decade later, she found him another wife. That one didn’t stick either—apparently, she “wasn’t a good fit.”
Emily, the second wife, had their son, Oliver, after the divorce. Annabelle insisted on a paternity test, which confirmed Victor was the father. But for the first time in his life, he slipped free of her grip. He visited Emily to meet his boy.
She lived modestly in a rented flat. The moment Victor laid eyes on two-month-old Oliver, something shifted.
“I’m staying,” he said firmly.
He rang his mother to say he’d collect his things later. Annabelle wept all night, baffled at how to reclaim her son. She didn’t even know Emily’s address. Victor avoided her, fetching his belongings when she was out.
Then, one day, he invited her to Oliver’s birthday. Annabelle arrived laden with gifts, beaming.
“For my grandson, Oliver Victor Thompson!” she declared proudly in the shops.
Victor greeted her at the door, Oliver in his arms.
“Meet your gran, son,” he said. “Mum, you’ve got no rivals when it comes to spoiling him. Emily’s parents, as you know, aren’t around.”
He handed Oliver over. Annabelle blinked back tears, her heart tight with emotion.
“You let him use a fork?!” she gasped, eyeing Emily. “What if he pokes himself?”
“It’s a child-safe one,” Emily replied.
“And socks? Does he put them on himself?” Annabelle pressed.
“Yes,” Victor cut in. “He’s been doing that for ages.”
“What about cups? Won’t he spill?”
“If he does, he’ll learn to be careful,” Victor said with a grin.
“Does he ride a bike? What if he falls?”
“We’ll help him up,” Victor said. “And if he cries, we’ll cuddle him.”
Annabelle was the only guest. The table was set with care, and for the first time, she felt truly wanted.
“Mum, Emily and I remarried,” Victor said. “Oliver has my name now.”
“Maybe you could move in with me?” she ventured. “The house is so empty…”
“No, Mum,” Victor said gently. “We want our own place. Saving up for a mortgage. It’ll work out.”
Annabelle spent the day with Oliver, and they hit it off instantly.
“Could I have him over sometimes?” she asked.
“Just don’t spoil him rotten!” Victor laughed.
“What’s a grandmother for?” she shot back. “The house is so quiet without you… Work doesn’t fill the gap. I’m happy with you all. Thank you, Emily, for my grandson.”
“And thank you for your son,” Emily smiled. “Oliver’s got the best dad.”
Back home, Annabelle was swallowed by the silence. Rooms that had once bustled now felt hollow. She opened her laptop and typed:
“For sale: Spacious 3-bed in central Wimbourne, 700 sq ft. Modern kitchen, separate bathroom, third floor, lovely garden with a play area. Near schools and parks…”
But after a pause, she closed the draft and browsed listings for flats. Her gaze settled on a modest one-bed near the university.
“I’ll keep the house for Oliver,” she decided. “They’re in a rented box—how did I let this happen? I’ve got savings, and if they run short, I’ll take a loan. The salary will cover it.”
A week later, Annabelle turned up unannounced. Emily stiffened, but her mother-in-law just smiled and dropped keys on the table.
“It’s tidy, furnished,” she said, almost apologetic. “I’ve bought a little place near work. Just a bed and desk so far, but I’ll manage.”
Victor and Emily gaped.
“Mum, what about you?” Victor asked.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “Oliver needs a proper home.”
Little Oliver toddled over, arms outstretched.
“Wants his gran,” Victor chuckled.
Annabelle scooped him up, spinning around the room, laughing:
“My window’s full of light again!”
Her heart, so long clenched with loneliness, now beat in time with joy. She knew—for this smile, for this family—she’d done the right thing.
