**A Second Chance**
Margaret Elizabeth was just your typical grandma, flaws and all. But Oliver loved her unconditionally. He barely remembered his father—though Gran always said it was better he never knew him. Whenever Oliver asked questions, she’d just sigh and say, *”You’ll understand when you’re older.”* So he stopped asking, figuring things out on his own as he grew.
She took him in when he was five, and after that, his mum only popped into his life now and then, between her latest boyfriends.
One day, when his mum showed up to take him back, Gran sent him to his room. He fiddled with his toys, ears straining for the kitchen argument. At first, it was just muffled voices—then the shouting started.
*”Enough’s enough! The boy needs a mother, not some dolled-up floozy!”* Gran snapped.
*”What, I’m supposed to bury myself alive now? I’m looking for a husband—a father for him!”* his mum yelled back.
*”Not where you’re looking, love. Decent men don’t bother with another man’s kid. They can’t even stick around for their own, let alone someone else’s.”*
*”You’ll never understand—you’re just—”* Then she hurled words Oliver didn’t know but knew were vicious.
Gran threw her out—again—and stormed into his room, ruffling his messy hair before slamming the door behind her.
His mum vanished for weeks, then reappeared, either glowing or fuming, depending on how her latest romance went. After she left, the scent of her perfume clung to his jumper, and Oliver would sniff it, half-wistful, half-gutted.
As he got older, he dreaded her visits. Gran would gulp down foul-smelling heart pills, bang around the kitchen, muttering about raising a heartless cow who abandoned her own child. *”I’ve got no strength left—next time, I’ll just let her take you…”* Oliver huddled in his room, waiting out the storm.
Eventually, Gran would shuffle in with a plate of warm scones or jam tarts, her voice softening. *”Why so quiet? Scared? Don’t be—I’m not sending you away. And don’t be cross with me.”* He never was. When he was upset, he went to her. But she couldn’t lean on an eight-year-old. So he listened to her grumbling, wishing life would just go back to normal. And it always did—until next time.
Oliver grew; Gran never seemed to. Frozen in time, in his mind. By sixth form, she nagged him daily: *”Study hard. Fail your A-levels, and it’s the army for you—I’m too old for that stress. Want me around longer? Get into uni.”* So he did, scraping into history—not glamorous, but solid. He liked reading, and it was better than risking Gran’s wrath.
Second year, he fell for a bubbly girl named Emily. She loved raves; Oliver hated crowds. But for her, he went. Gran took one look at his dazed grin and sighed, waiting up nights, worrying. He’d hurry home, torn between guilt and frustration—*why couldn’t she just sleep?*
One night, Emily gave him an ultimatum: leave the party, lose her. He sprinted home, cursing under his breath—only to find Gran collapsed on the floor, one arm twisted under her. The ambulance arrived just in time. *”Any later…”* the medic muttered.
Oliver blamed himself. He’d missed the signs—her dizziness, the pills, how she clung to furniture. Maybe if he’d stayed home…
Three weeks in hospital. Then home again, frail and slurring, one arm limp. Now he was juggling uni, shopping, cooking, cleaning—while Gran dropped everything.
Then a young nurse, Lucy, arrived. Blonde plait, no-nonsense. *”Do the exercises. It’ll take time—don’t quit.”* She scolded him for skipping them.
*”No time! Between lectures, laundry, burning porridge—”*
She showed him how to cook properly. *”You’ll learn. Not rocket science.”* But she blushed when he praised her.
Gran improved. Lucy started dropping by after shifts—helping with meals, exercises. Soon, she was family.
His mum? Nowhere. Probably off with husband number who-knows. Last time, her perfume reeked, her makeup caked thick. Lucy never wore any.
He invited his mum to the wedding—small, simple. Neighbour said she’d moved away.
After graduation, Oliver stayed on as a lecturer. Gran was steadier now. Money was tight but enough. One night, he mentioned kids to Lucy. She went pink. *”Bit late for that… I’m pregnant.”*
His mum turned up when Lucy was showing. Screaming about *”ungrateful sons”* and *”snubbed invitations.”* Not a word about Gran’s stroke. She stormed out—and Gran collapsed. The second stroke took her.
At the wake, his mum slurred through drunken tears about *”both being orphans now.”* Next morning, his keys went missing. Lucy handed him hers. *”I’ll be late anyway.”*
He came home to muddy prints—and his mum rifling through drawers. *”Looking for these?”* He tipped Gran’s ruby earrings and ring onto the table.
She grabbed them. *”Mine. She promised!”*
*”Take them. Go.”*
*”Kicking out your own mother? I’ve rights to this flat!”* Coughing, she fled.
She came back a year later. Little Daisy was crawling. His mum looked exhausted, thinner—no more hiding her age. She reached for the baby. Lucy tensed, but Oliver stopped her. *”Give her a chance.”*
His mum gurgled with Daisy, who beamed up at her. *”She smiled at me! Can I… come again?”*
*”Yeah. Come whenever.”*
Maybe, like Gran said, she’d been a rubbish mum. But she was trying—now. She visited daily, doting on Daisy. Lucy relaxed, even left them alone. Funny thing—grandmas love grandkids more than their own kids, they say.
And maybe a grandma’s just a mum who gets a second chance. So Oliver gave his that—to be for Daisy what Margaret Elizabeth had been for him.