**A Difficult Decision**
“Gran, I don’t want porridge,” Oliver whispered, pushing his plate away slowly without taking his eyes off Eleanor.
Her daughter had done the same thing years ago. If she didn’t want soup or porridge, she’d nudge the plate closer and closer to the edge until it toppled onto the floor. Where had he picked that up? He couldn’t have seen it—he’d never met his mother as a child. Grown-up Alice had never done it. Was it genetics?
She’d scolded her daughter, but she couldn’t bring herself to be angry with Oliver.
“Stop!” she commanded before the plate could tip over. “If you don’t want it, don’t eat it. Have some tea instead.”
“Can I have a sweet?” Oliver asked.
“No sweets. You had one before breakfast and spoiled your appetite. No more until lunch.”
“But Graa-an,” Oliver whined.
Tears welled up in his eyes, his bottom lip trembling—he was about to cry. The little rascal knew exactly how to play her, and he used it shamelessly.
*He cries just like Alice used to*, Eleanor thought with a pang, ready to give in. But just then, the doorbell rang.
“Take a biscuit,” she said, stepping away from the kitchen.
“Don’t want a biscuit!” Oliver called after her petulantly.
Eleanor opened the door. There stood William, her son-in-law and Oliver’s father.
“Hello, Mrs. Harding. You look lovely as ever,” he said, smiling.
The compliment warmed her, but she replied coolly.
“Likewise. Come in.”
“Dad!” Oliver dashed into the hallway.
William crouched and scooped him into his arms, holding him close.
“You’ve gotten so heavy. Growing like a weed!” His eyes softened with affection.
“Did you bring me anything?” Oliver asked, squirming away slightly.
“Have you behaved? Listened to Gran? No mischief?” William glanced at Eleanor, who stayed silent, looking away.
“Come on, confess—what have you done?” William teased, jostling his son playfully.
“I didn’t eat my porridge. Got in trouble at nursery for fighting with Noah. It wasn’t my fault! He pushed me and took my toy car. I hit him back, but *I* got punished, not him.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” William sighed.
“Oliver, go to your room. I need to speak with your father.”
William set him down, pulled a toy car from his coat pocket, and handed it over. Beaming, Oliver scampered off. William followed Eleanor into the kitchen, sitting at the table while she cleared away the uneaten porridge and lingered by the sink.
“That Noah’s mother gave me an earful. She demanded I punish Oliver. But he’s hardly an angel—he shoves other children, then runs to tattle. Kids fight, it’s normal. Still, we shouldn’t encourage Oliver to hit back,” she chided.
“I can’t thank you enough, Mrs. Harding, for taking care of my boy. I couldn’t manage without you.”
“Of course. I’m his grandmother,” she said, knowing full well she was fishing for praise. Yes, Oliver was her grandson, but with her youthful looks, she could easily pass for his mother.
“Perhaps we should hire a nanny?” William always addressed her formally, emphasizing respect. She frowned.
“What nonsense is that?” She shot him a glance, finding him studying her. A woman always *knows* when a man looks at her that way. It flustered her.
She turned back to the sink, turning the tap on needlessly before shutting it off. *God, I’m nervous. The last thing I need is him noticing.* She crossed her arms.
“No nanny. Do you really think a stranger will care for him better than I do? End of discussion.”
“But he’s a handful. You should have your own life…” William hesitated, clearing his throat.
“You could have one too.”
Their eyes met, then darted away.
She’d never understood what a man like William saw in her impulsive, reckless daughter. He was fifteen years older than Alice—closer to Eleanor’s age than hers.
But he’d loved Alice. Of that, she was certain. Enough to envy her a little. When Alice announced their engagement, Eleanor had protested.
“He’s older, wiser, and you’re still a child. What could you possibly have in common?”
“Mum, we love each other. I’m *twenty*. If you say no, I’ll run away anyway. Or do you just envy me?” Alice had taunted.
“Don’t rush. Get to know each other first.” Eleanor had hoped William would see sense and back out. “You’d be better off with someone your own age.”
“They’re all boring. Be honest—if you’d met William before me, wouldn’t *you* have married him?”
*She has no idea how right she is.*
She’d tried reasoning with William too—begging him not to marry her flighty daughter. He was mature; what did he want with a girl who couldn’t even cook?
“She’ll learn. I adore Alice. She’ll be happy, I promise.” She believed him.
They married. Of course, Alice dropped out of university when she got pregnant. She tried hard to be a good wife, calling Eleanor daily—*How do I make roast beef? Why do my pancakes tear?* She became a wonderful mother.
Once Oliver started nursery, Alice re-enrolled, studying remotely. William even forged work documents so she could list his firm as her employer. Then he bought her that wretched motorbike.
Eleanor had raged—*It’s the most dangerous vehicle! Buy her a car!*
“I taught her to ride. She’s careful,” he’d defended.
“You too? I’m disappointed.”
“Why?” William smirked. “Trust me, it’s under control.” He’d pulled her into a reassuring hug.
She’d trembled at his touch. Thank God he didn’t notice—she’d have died of shame. *His mother-in-law, melting at his embrace. Disgusting!*
But she was still a woman. A *young* woman.
Eleanor had fallen hard as a student—so hard she’d gotten pregnant instantly. The terrified eighteen-year-old father bolted. Her own mother refused to let her terminate, babysat Alice while Eleanor finished her degree. She never remarried, too wary of heartbreak.
*If only I’d met William first…* Tall, composed, with that dignified charm—she understood why Alice adored him.
That day, she’d agreed to collect Oliver from nursery. No premonitions. Alice had mentioned going to watch races outside town—not to participate, just spectate.
On their way back, the bikes had been riding single-file along the motorway. An SUV veered onto the road, miscalculating speed—clipping the last two riders. Both skidded into the ditch. The other biker broke his leg. Alice suffered fatal head trauma. She never woke from the coma.
Eleanor had blamed William.
“Why did you buy her that bike? Why teach her? She’d be alive—she wanted a daughter!” she’d shrieked at her hollow-eyed son-in-law.
She’d thought her grief was greater, blind to his. Then she took Oliver in. William didn’t argue—he knew the boy was her lifeline. Later, he’d tried reclaiming his son, but Eleanor pleaded. He visited often, bringing toys, money, spending time with Oliver. She knew she was selfish, but Oliver had filled the void.
A year passed. A rainy summer loomed. William suggested a seaside holiday.
“You two go,” she agreed. “You need time together.”
“No, *you’re* coming too. You need a break. No arguments.”
“I’ll just be in the way. You might meet someone—”
“Eleanor. We’re not going without you.”
“Fine,” she relented. Truthfully, the idea of William and Oliver alone at the coast unnerved her.
After he left, she rummaged through her wardrobe, holding sundresses against herself, studying her reflection—until she caught Oliver’s curious stare from the sofa. Shame flared. *Who are you dressing up for? You’re his dead wife’s mother. He still loves her.* She shoved the clothes back.
At the hotel, William booked her a separate room. Days were spent on the beach, where she sneaked glances at him, envying the women who did the same.
He built sandcastles with Oliver, laughing as other children joined in. Their mothers lingered nearby, shamelessly flirting—stoking Eleanor’s jealousy. Fed up, she marched over. William shifted, making space beside him.
“Oliver, put your shirt on—you’ll burn,” she said, ignoring the women.
Their faces fell. Clearly, they assumed she was William’s wife. The flirting stopped.
Sleepless nights tortured her—visions of William’s sun-kissed skin, the way he moved. She *ached*As she stood there on the beach, watching Oliver chase seagulls while the waves lapped at her feet, Eleanor finally let go of her doubts, took William’s hand, and realized that sometimes happiness comes not in the way we expect, but in the way we dare to accept it.
