“Excuse me! Margaret Elizabeth?”
I was trudging home from work, lost in thoughts about dinner and tomorrow’s meeting, when a voice called out behind me. Turning around, I saw a young woman with a little boy of about six. She sounded hesitant, but her gaze was steady.
“My name is Emily,” she said. “And this is your grandson, Oliver. He’s six now.”
At first, I thought it was some bizarre joke. I didn’t recognize either of them. My head spun with shock.
“Sorry, but… you must be mistaken?” was all I managed.
Emily pressed on, unfazed.
“No mistake. Your son is Oliver’s father. I kept quiet for a long time, but I decided you had a right to know. I’m not asking for anything. Here’s my number. Call if you want to meet him.”
And with that, she left me standing on the pavement, clutching a scrap of paper, my fists tightening. I immediately rang my only son, Edward.
“Edward, have you ever dated a girl named Emily? Do you have a child?”
“Mum, well… briefly. She acted oddly, then claimed she was pregnant. But I don’t know—maybe she made it up. She vanished after that. I’m not even sure he’s mine.”
His answer unsettled me. On one hand, I’d always trusted Edward. I raised him alone, working two jobs, denying myself everything so he’d have a better life. He’s a respected professional, yet never settled down. I’d begged him for grandchildren, dreaming of being a grandma. And now—voilà—one appears out of thin air.
The next day, I called Emily. She wasn’t surprised.
“Ollie’s six. Born in April. And no, I won’t do any tests. I know exactly who his father is. We split when I was pregnant. I didn’t come sooner because I managed on my own. My parents helped. We’re fine. I only came for Ollie—he deserves to know he has a grandma. And you… if you want, you can be part of his life. If not, I’ll understand.”
I hung up and sat in silence. Part of me couldn’t dismiss Edward’s words. Yet, I’d seen something familiar in Oliver’s eyes—his smile, his gestures. Or was it just my longing for a grandchild?
That evening, I stared out the window, remembering Edward’s first day at school, sharing porridge from the same bowl. Could he really have abandoned a child? Or was Ollie someone else’s?
Even so, I felt an odd warmth thinking about him—and a pang of guilt for doubting. I’d never asked for proof when Edward was born. Why demand it now? Why couldn’t I just trust my heart?
I haven’t decided yet. I haven’t called back. But every time I pass that street, I scan the crowd. I don’t know if Oliver’s truly my grandson. But I can’t let go of the thought. The dream of being a grandma won’t fade. Maybe soon, I’ll dial that number—if only to meet the boy who called me “Grandma.”
