A Light in the Window: The Road to Happiness
Edward, or Eddie as his mum called him, had long since passed the age of thirty-eight. But to Professor Margaret Thompson of the local university, he remained her little boy—her precious treasure. She never quite saw him as a grown man capable of living his own life.
Margaret had never married. She dedicated herself entirely to her work and her son, whom she’d had at thirty-six. Edward was born delicate, and she did everything to make him strong. Her care knew no bounds—she dressed him, spoon-fed him, even brushed his teeth for him. By three, he’d grown into a sturdy, sweet little lad, but Margaret still wouldn’t let him out of her sight.
Nursery school became problematic. The teachers scolded her:
“Your son can’t do anything by himself! The other children dress themselves, but he just stands there waiting for help.”
She dismissed their criticism:
“A child has a mother for a reason! If you can’t be bothered to help him, find another job!”
In the end, she withdrew Edward from nursery and hired a nanny who, like her, coddled him. Edward got used to others making decisions for him. By primary school, Margaret had found a new minder—a retired neighbour who monitored his every move. She even wrangled a doctor’s note to exempt him from PE. Food, clothes, routines—she chose everything.
“Eat your sandwich, love, you’re still peckish,” she’d say, carefully buttering the bread and handing it to ten-year-old Edward.
He’d obediently take a bite. There was no arguing with Mum.
Edward wasn’t naturally heavy, but lack of exercise and endless snacks did their work. By twenty, he was tall, pleasant-looking, but undeniably soft around the edges. He enrolled at the university where his mother taught. Colleagues snickered when they saw Margaret waiting outside the lecture hall to help him into his coat. His jacket sleeves even had mittens on elastic—just in case he lost them.
He studied diligently and, after graduation, stayed on as a lecturer—his mother insisted. At twenty-six, she decided it was time he married. She picked the bride. Edward didn’t object. The marriage lasted all of five minutes.
“She wasn’t who she claimed to be!” Margaret fumed. “Said Edward was too dependent, criticised my care! Well, I wasn’t having that. I made sure they divorced!”
A decade later, she found him another wife. That marriage also ended after she declared the girl “unsuitable.”
Emma, the second wife, had a son, Oliver, after the split. Margaret demanded a DNA test—it confirmed Edward was the father. But for the first time, he slipped her leash. He went to see Emma and the baby.
Emma lived humbly in a rented flat. The moment Edward held two-month-old Oliver, something shifted.
“I’m staying,” he said firmly.
He rang his mother to say he’d collect his things later. Margaret sobbed all night, frantic to reel him back in. She didn’t even know Emma’s address. Edward avoided her, retrieving his belongings when she was out.
Then, one day, he invited her to Oliver’s birthday. Margaret arrived laden with presents, beaming.
“For my grandson, Oliver Edward Thompson!” she announced proudly in the shop.
Edward met her at the door, Oliver in his arms.
“Say hello to Granny, mate,” he said. “Mum, relax—you’ll always be the world’s best grandmother. Emma’s parents aren’t around, as you know.”
He passed Oliver to her. Margaret blinked back tears, her heart swelling.
“You’re giving him a fork?” she gasped, eyeing Emma. “What if he pokes himself?”
“It’s a child-safe one,” Emma said.
“And socks? Does he put them on himself?” Margaret pressed.
“Has done for ages,” Edward cut in.
“He drinks from a proper cup? Won’t he spill?”
“If he does, he’ll learn,” Edward grinned.
“Rides a bike? What if he falls?”
“We’ll pick him up,” he said. “And if he cries, we’ll cuddle him.”
Margaret was the only guest. The table was laid with care, and for the first time, she felt truly wanted.
“Mum, Emma and I remarried,” Edward said. “Oliver’s got my name now.”
“Perhaps you’d move back in with me?” she ventured. “The house is so empty…”
“No, Mum,” Edward said gently. “We want our own place. Saving for a mortgage. It’ll work out.”
Margaret spent the day with Oliver, and they became fast friends.
“Let me have him sometimes?” she pleaded.
“Just don’t spoil him rotten!” Edward laughed.
“What’s a granny for?” she shot back. “I’ve been so lonely… Work’s no substitute. Being with you—that’s happiness. Thank you, Emma, for my grandson.”
“And thank you for your son,” Emma smiled. “Oliver’s got the best dad.”
Back home, Margaret felt the crushing silence. Rooms once full of life now seemed frigid. She opened her laptop and typed:
“For sale: three-bed terrace in central York, 700 sq ft. Spacious kitchen, separate WC, first floor, lovely garden with play area. Near Ofsted-outstanding primary…”
Then she paused, closed the draft, and searched for flats to buy instead. Her eyes landed on a modest one-bed near the uni.
“I’ll keep this house for Oliver,” she decided. “They’re in a rented box—how did I allow that? I’ve savings, and if need be, I’ll take a loan. My salary can manage.”
A week later, Margaret turned up unannounced. Emma stiffened, but her mother-in-law just smiled and dropped keys on the table.
“House is clean, furnished,” she said, almost apologetic. “I’ve bought a flat near work. Just a bed and desk for now, but I’ll manage.”
Edward and Emma gaped.
“Mum, what about you?” Edward asked.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “Oliver needs a proper home.”
Little Oliver toddled over, arms outstretched.
“Wants his granny,” Edward chuckled.
Margaret swept him up, spinning around the room, laughing:
“My window’s got sunlight again!”
Her heart, locked in loneliness for so long, now beat in time with joy. She knew—for that smile, for her family—she’d done the right thing.
