I am Oksana, and this is your grandson, age six.
In a quiet village nestled in the heart of the English countryside, where cobbled lanes are shaded by ancient oaks and life moves at a gentle pace, my fate took an unexpected turn. My name is Eleanor Whitmore, and I was returning from work when I heard a voice call out to me. I turned and frozebefore me stood a young woman with a boy of about six. She stepped closer and spoke words that chilled me to the bone: “Eleanor Whitmore, my name is Abigail, and this is your grandson, Oliver. He is six years old.”
I was stunned. Their faces were unfamiliar, and her words struck like a thunderclap. I have a son, Edwarda clever, ambitious man, climbing the ranks of his profession. Yet he was unwed, and though I had long dreamed of being a grandmother, I never imagined it would happen this waysuddenly, at the hands of a stranger. Shock gave way to bewilderment: how had I lived six years without knowing this child existed?
Perhaps it was my fault. I raised Edward alone, working tirelessly to secure his future. I took pride in his successes, but his romantic life troubled me. He moved from one fleeting affair to another, never settling. I never interfered, but deep down, I remembered my own youth when I bore himalone, without support, sacrificing comfort for his sake. Only a few years ago, Edward treated me to a holiday by the Cornish coastmy first glimpse of the sea. I regret nothing, yet the longing to be a grandmother never left me.
And now, here stood Abigail and Oliver. Her voice trembled but held steady as she added, “I debated telling you for years, but Oliver is part of your family. You had a right to know. I ask for nothingI raise him alone. Here is my number. If you wish to meet him, call me.”
With that, she left me reeling. I rang Edward at once. He was as shocked as I. Barely did he recall a brief fling with an Abigail years prior. She had told him of a pregnancy, but he refused to acknowledge it. Then she vanished, and he thought no more of it. His words cut deep. My boy, whom I had cherished, had dismissed responsibility as though it were nothing.
Edward claimed ignorance of the child and doubted Oliver was his. “Why wait six years? Its suspicious!” I tried to make sense of it. They had parted in September, he said. Doubt crept inwhat if Abigail lied? Yet Olivers face, his shy, wide eyes, haunted me.
At last, I called Abigail back. She told me Oliver was born in April. When I mentioned a paternity test, she replied calmly, “I know who his father is. No test is needed.” She assured me her parents helped, that she worked to provide for Oliver, who would start school come autumn. Her voice was steady, but resolute.
“Eleanor Whitmore,” she said, “if you wish to see Oliver, I wont stand in your way. If not, Ill understand. I know from Edward how hard it was for you.”
She hung up, and since then, Ive wonderedshould I knock on her door, or leave the past where it belongs?
