— Mum, I’m bringing my girlfriend over today. I’d like you to meet her. I’ve wanted this for so long, but the timing was never right. Her daughter is with her grandmother tonight, so today is perfect,— these were the words that stunned Eleanor, uttered by her son, Edward, in their spacious home in Manchester.
Eleanor froze, her chest tightening with unease. Edward was only twenty-one, and already speaking of a woman with a child? She knew nothing of his personal life, and the news struck her like a bolt from the blue.
Eleanor had been widowed six years earlier. Her husband, William, had died suddenly—his heart had stopped at just forty-three, taken by a clot. He had been full of life, their love seemingly unbreakable. William and Eleanor had been inseparable since childhood—schoolmates who shared dreams and laughter. In primary school, he had tugged her pigtails; by secondary, he carried her books; and by sixth form, they had confessed their love. Married at eighteen, they could not imagine life apart.
Their marriage had been happy. They supported each other through studies, work, and building a cosy home. When Edward turned thirteen, they began dreaming of a second child, but fate had other plans. William’s death shattered their world. Edward, then a boy of fifteen, withdrew into himself. Eleanor, clenching her teeth, gathered her strength to care for him. She worked, raised him, and thought she had succeeded—Edward grew up, went to university. She had sighed in relief—only to realise it was premature.
— Mum, this is Lucy. My girlfriend,— Edward announced as he opened the door.
Beside him stood a tall woman with long fair hair. Elegant, in a stylish dress and heels, she smiled, but Eleanor could not return it. Lucy was nearly her own age—fifteen years older than Edward. Eleanor felt a cold settle in her chest, but she swallowed her emotions, greeted her politely, and ushered them to the table.
Over supper, Lucy spoke of herself. Thirty-nine, renting a flat in Manchester, she had moved from another town. Her daughter, Sophie, was five and attended nursery.
— I suppose you’re shocked,— Lucy began, glancing at Eleanor. —I’m much older than Edward. But age is just a number, isn’t it? When you love someone, it doesn’t matter. We found each other. As a woman yourself, surely you understand?— Her smile was coy, but a flicker of defiance lay in her eyes.
Eleanor nodded, though doubt gnawed at her. After Lucy left, Edward stayed behind.
— Mum, you’re the most important person in my life. Please, try to understand. Yes, Lucy’s older, but we love each other. It’s not just a fling—it’s serious. And Sophie, her little girl—she’s sweet. Mum, could they stay here? Lucy’s got no place of her own, and our house is big enough. If you say no, I’ll understand.
Eleanor looked at her son, her heart split in two. She wanted to protect him, to warn him—but the hope in his eyes was unbearable.
— Stay, then,— she murmured. —Just promise me you’ll be happy.
— Thank you, Mum! They’ll move in tomorrow! I knew you’d be the best about it!— Edward threw his arms around her and dashed off to call Lucy.
Alone, Eleanor rang her friend Margaret, who listened without interruption before saying:
— Ellie, this feels odd. Love’s complicated, yes, but think—this woman has a child from God knows who, no home of her own, and your son is a young man with a big house. Convenient, isn’t it? Nearly twenty years between them. Might she just be settling in? Be careful, or you’ll sour things with Edward forever.
Eleanor frowned. She resolved to tread lightly, watching Lucy to discern her intentions. The next day, Lucy and Sophie arrived. The little girl was charming—shy at first, then bold, showing Eleanor her dolls. Despite herself, Eleanor smiled, though unease lingered.
That evening, after putting Sophie to bed, the adults sat for tea. Eleanor watched Edward embrace Lucy, and a pang of jealousy pricked her. In Lucy’s eyes, she glimpsed triumph: *Your son is mine now, and there’s nothing you can do.* Eleanor fought the thought, but it returned like a shadow.
Alone, she wondered—could Lucy truly love Edward? Perhaps they would be happy? Yet doubt gnawed at her. That night, she dreamt of William. He was young again, smiling faintly, holding a bouquet of daisies, her favourite. She reached for him—but he dissolved. She woke in tears at three in the morning, her hands still outstretched, calling his name.
Then clarity struck. She must not interfere. Edward was grown—let him choose. If he erred, it was his to mend. Eleanor wiped her tears and lay back, whispering, *It will be all right. It must.* But deep down, she feared this choice would tear their family apart.
