The Light in the Window: A Path to Happiness
Victor, or Vicky as his mother called him, had long passed the age of thirty-eight. But to Professor Annabelle Wilson of the local university, he remained her little boy, her precious treasure. She never saw him as a grown man capable of living his own life.
Annabelle had never married. She devoted herself entirely to her work and her son, whom she had at thirty-six. Victor was born frail, and she did everything to help him grow strong. Her care knew no bounds—she dressed him, spoon-fed him, even brushed his teeth for him. By three, he was a sturdy, sweet little boy, but Annabelle still kept him close, never letting him out of her sight.
Trouble started at nursery. The teachers scolded her:
“Your son can’t do anything by himself! The other children dress themselves, but he just waits for help.”
She dismissed their criticism:
“He has a mother! If you can’t handle dressing him, find another job!”
In the end, she pulled Victor from nursery and hired a nanny who, like her, denied him any independence. Victor grew accustomed to others making every decision for him. By school age, Annabelle found a new nanny—a retired neighbor who monitored every step he took. She secured medical notes excusing him from PE. His meals, clothes, schedule—she chose it all.
“Eat your sandwich, you haven’t had enough,” Annabelle would say, carefully buttering the bread and handing it to ten-year-old Victor.
He ate obediently, never arguing. There was no arguing with Mum.
Naturally lean, Victor grew slightly plump from lack of activity and overfeeding. By twenty, he was tall, pleasant-looking, but a little heavy. He enrolled at the university where his mother taught. Colleagues smirked when they saw Annabelle waiting for him in the cloakroom, helping him into his coat. His jacket sleeves even had mittens attached with elastic—so he wouldn’t lose them.
Victor studied diligently, and after graduation, he stayed on as a lecturer—just as his mother insisted. At twenty-six, she decided it was time for him to marry. She chose the bride herself. Victor didn’t object. But the marriage quickly fell apart.
“She wasn’t who she claimed to be!” Annabelle fumed. “She said Victor was too dependent, criticized my care. I didn’t tolerate it and made sure they divorced!”
Ten years later, she found another bride. Again, she forced a separation, declaring this one “unsuitable.”
Emma, Victor’s second wife, gave birth to a son, Oliver, after their divorce. Annabelle demanded a DNA test, which confirmed Victor’s paternity. But for the first time, he broke free from her control. He visited Emma to meet his son.
Emma lived modestly in a rented flat. When Victor saw two-month-old Oliver, something in him shifted.
“I’m staying with you,” he said firmly.
He called his mother to say he’d collect his things later. Annabelle sobbed all night, unsure how to win him back. She didn’t even know Emma’s address. Victor avoided her, retrieving his belongings when she was out.
Then one day, he invited her to Oliver’s birthday. Annabelle arrived laden with gifts, beaming with pride.
“For my grandson, Oliver Victor Wilson!” she announced to the shop assistant.
At the door, Victor met her with Oliver in his arms.
“Meet your grandma, son,” he said. “Mum, you’ve no competition when it comes to spoiling him. Emma, as you know, lost her parents years ago.”
He handed Oliver to her. Annabelle held back tears, though her heart ached.
“You’re giving him a fork?” she gasped, eyeing Emma. “What if he pokes himself?”
“It’s a child’s fork, safe,” Emma replied.
“And his socks? Does he put them on himself?”
“He does,” Victor cut in. “He’s been doing that for ages.”
“He drinks from a cup? Won’t he spill?”
“If he does, he’ll learn to be careful,” Victor smiled.
“Does he ride a bike? What if he falls?”
“We’ll help him up,” Victor said. “And if he cries, we’ll comfort him.”
Annabelle was the only guest. The table was set warmly, and for the first time, she felt valued.
“Mum, Emma and I remarried,” Victor said. “Oliver has my name now.”
“Maybe you could move in with me?” she ventured timidly. “The house feels so empty…”
“No, Mum,” Victor replied gently. “We want our own place. We’re saving for a mortgage. It’ll all work out.”
Annabelle spent the day with Oliver, and they bonded instantly.
“Could I have him over sometimes?” she asked.
“Just don’t spoil him too much!” Victor laughed.
“What’s a grandma for?” she shot back. “Without you, I’m so lonely… Work doesn’t fill the gap. With you, I’m happy. Thank you, Emma, for my grandson!”
“And thank you for your son,” Emma smiled. “Oliver has the best father.”
Returning home, Annabelle felt the crushing weight of emptiness. Rooms once full of life now seemed cold. She opened her laptop and began typing:
“For sale: three-bedroom house in central Oxford, 700 sq ft. Spacious kitchen, separate bathroom, first floor, quiet neighbourhood with a playground. Close to schools…”
But after a moment, she closed the draft and searched for smaller flats instead. Her eyes landed on a modest one-bedroom near the university.
“I’ll keep the house for Oliver,” she decided. “They’re renting a tiny place—how could I allow that? My savings will cover it, and if not, I’ll take a loan. My salary can manage.”
A week later, Annabelle arrived unannounced. Emma tensed, but her mother-in-law smiled and placed keys on the table.
“The house is clean, furnished,” she said, almost apologetically. “I’ve bought a flat near work. Just a bed and desk for now, but I’ll manage.”
Victor and Emma were stunned.
“Mum, what about you?” Victor asked.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “Oliver needs a home.”
Little Oliver toddled over, arms outstretched.
“He wants his grandma,” Victor grinned.
Annabelle scooped him up, spinning him around as she laughed:
“There’s sunlight in my window again!”
Her heart, so long shackled by loneliness, now beat in time with joy. She knew—for that smile, for her family, she’d made the right choice.
