**Diary Entry – 21st October**
If someone had told me one sentence could erase years of love, devotion, and shared dreams, I’d have laughed in their face. Now, I live with that truth every day—not like a confession, but like a wound that won’t heal. Because at the heart of it all was a child. Our son. *Her* grandson. A boy she adored beyond reason—until the moment she realised he wasn’t “blood.”
When Sophie and I married, I was twenty-three, she was twenty-five. Young, full of hope, certain life would unfold perfectly. We dreamed of children—three, if we could manage it. We didn’t wait, even though we were scraping by in a rented flat in Manchester, counting every pound, with takeaway curry once a month as our only luxury. But we were happy. Truly happy.
Months passed with no luck. Tests followed. My health was fine. Sophie’s? A death sentence: infertility. Complete. We saw specialists, even travelled to a clinic in London. The answer never changed. She withdrew, offered divorce, asked, *”What use am I to you now?”* I refused. I hadn’t chosen her for children—I’d chosen her as my partner, my life. So we made a decision: a donor.
It wasn’t easy, but the clinic handled it with kindness. We pored over profiles together, and Sophie picked a man who looked like me—same height, same dark hair, same blue eyes. Never once did I doubt it was right.
My mother, Margaret, had been our loudest cheerleader. Every Sunday, over roast dinner: *”So, James, when’s the happy news?”* She threw a party when we announced the pregnancy, hugged Sophie like her own daughter. She knitted booties, brought casseroles, even queued with us for scans. I started to believe we’d won the lottery with her.
When our son, Thomas (after Sophie’s father), was born, Margaret lost her mind with joy. From day one, she was *Grandma Extraordinaire*—prams, toys, endless babysitting. She nearly rowed with Sophie’s mum over who got to hold him first. They laughed it off after a sherry, though. Picture-perfect.
Only Sophie and I knew about the donor. But Thomas was my mirror—same grin, same stubborn brow. Margaret would coo, *”Goodness, he’s your double!”* I’d just nod. Every time, Sophie asked, *”Should we tell her?”* I’d say, *”Not yet.”* Shame? Fear? Both.
Years passed. Thomas grew. Margaret spoiled him rotten, always adding, *”He’s my only grandchild—for now!”* That *”for now”* gnawed at me. Then, when Thomas turned two, she started hinting—*”When’s the next one coming? He needs a playmate!”*—laughing, but dead serious.
I bit my tongue. Until one afternoon, over tea, as she dangled another teddy bear and chirped, *”Time for baby number two!”*, I snapped.
*”Margaret… Thomas was conceived with a donor. Sophie can’t have children. There won’t be another.”* I watched her face freeze. Her eyes turned to glass. She stared at me, then at Thomas, who tugged her sleeve—and she *flinched*. No words. No goodbye. Just… distance.
Sophie crumpled when I told her. *”It’s starting,”* she whispered.
A week of silence. No calls. No texts. I went to Margaret’s—returned hollow. She chatted about weather, telly, her arthritis. Not a word about Thomas. As if he’d vanished. A month later, we learned she’d signed her house over. Not to her grandson. To her niece. The same woman who’d vowed, *”Everything for Thomas!”*
He turned three last week. Margaret didn’t come. Didn’t call. My throat clogged when he asked, *”Daddy, did Grandma forget me?”*
I had no answer. Still don’t. Sophie blames me for telling the truth. But I couldn’t keep swallowing the questions, couldn’t pretend.
I cling to one hope: that love—even without blood—is stronger than pride. That someday, she’ll knock. Hold him. Whisper, *”What’s my Tommy been up to?”*
Because family isn’t about DNA. It’s about who’s there when you stumble. Who stays.
I hope she remembers. Before it’s too late.
