I had hoped for a daughter, but God gave me a son. And yet, I wept at his wedding…
While Oliver and Emily celebrated their grand, lively, joyous occasion, with every guest raising a glass in admiration of the newlyweds, no one noticed the woman in the far corner of the hall, discreetly wiping away tears. This was the groom’s mother—Margaret Wilson. And she wasn’t crying from happiness. Her heart ached not with joy, but with loneliness, which she feared would now be her constant companion.
Long ago, her own mother had told her: *”A son is born to leave you. Try again—maybe you’ll have a girl. A daughter stays for her mother, but a son belongs to his wife.”* Back then, Margaret had brushed it off. Life stretched ahead—why rush?
Even in her youth, she had dreamed of a daughter. She imagined washing a little rosy face in the mornings, braiding curls, tying ribbons. She’d even picked a name—Rosie. She’d bought pink swaddling cloths and asked a friend to save her baby clothes—just in case.
But fate had other plans. A boy was born. Oliver. And though he could never be her Rosie, he was so gentle, sweet, and cuddly that Margaret would gaze at him and think, *”Well, almost like a girl…”*
As a toddler, strangers often mistook him for one. But then—he grew. Became a man: self-assured, independent. Yet his kindness and openness never faded. She was proud—yet a quiet regret still smoldered inside. What if she’d had that Rosie? If she hadn’t been afraid, hadn’t left her husband, hadn’t ended up alone…
When Oliver brought Emily home, Margaret knew at once. Their laughter, the way they held hands—this was love, real and deep. She never managed to say what she meant to that day, only murmuring, *”Don’t stay out too late…”*
Oliver obeyed, but his eyes told the truth—he wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a man, and his choices were his own.
Six months later, when he announced his engagement, Margaret nearly choked.
*”Why not wait? At least finish your degree,”* she pleaded.
*”Mum, love doesn’t wait,”* he grinned. *”Emily and I—we’re unstoppable. Together, I can do anything.”*
The wedding was splendid, full of music and laughter. And there, amidst the revelry, Margaret sat alone, watching the groom. *Her* son. No longer her curly-haired little boy, but a man stepping into his own life.
Emily noticed. Gently, she touched Margaret’s shoulder.
*”Margaret, you’re crying—is everything alright?”*
*”Oh, darling, it’s nothing… just emotions,”* she answered, turning away.
But Emily wouldn’t let it go. So Margaret confessed—her dreams of a daughter, her fear of loneliness, how hard it was to raise only a son. Emily listened, then embraced her.
*”Let me be your daughter,”* she whispered. *”I’d love nothing more.”*
Everything changed. Oliver and Emily rented a flat, then bought their own home. They lived apart, but always invited Margaret—weekends, holidays. Emily called often, seeking advice. Then—a granddaughter arrived. Rosy-cheeked, with Oliver’s curls, and the name *Rosie* from Margaret’s long-ago dreams.
Holding the baby for the first time, Margaret wept—but now, from joy. Emily, smiling, whispered: *”You’re a grandmother now. We love you so much.”*
Years passed. Oliver rose in his career; Emily built her own business. Margaret moved in with them—a spacious home, her own room, all the care a woman could wish for.
Now, she thinks back on that wedding and her tears with a smile. Often, she sits with neighbors—one whose daughter moved to America and rings once a month, another with two sons who visit daily.
*”It’s not about what you’re given,”* Margaret says. *”It’s about what you make of it. I wanted a daughter… but fate gave me a son. And a daughter, too. Thank you, God.”*
Watching little Rosie play in the garden, she whispers in her heart to her own mother: *”You were wrong. A son can stay for his mother—if she raises him right.”*
