Im walking home from work, exhausted as usual, lost in thoughts about dinner and tomorrows meeting. Suddenly, a voice calls out behind me:
“Excuse me! Emily Whitmore?”
I turn around. A young woman stands there, holding the hand of a boy around six years old. Her tone is hesitant, but her gaze is steady.
“My name is Sophie,” she says. “And this is your grandson, Oliver. Hes six already.”
At first, I think its a bad joke. Neither she nor the child look familiar. The shock makes my head spin.
“Sorry, but you must be mistaken?” I manage to say.
Sophie continues firmly:
“No, Im not. Your son is Olivers father. Ive kept quiet for a long time, but I think you have the right to know. Im not asking for anything. Heres my number. Call me if youd like to meet him.”
With that, she walks away, leaving me stunned on the pavement, clutching the scrap of paper in my clenched hand. I rush to call my only son, James.
“James, did you ever date someone named Sophie? Do you have a child?”
“Mum, come on It was nothing serious. She was odd, then claimed she was pregnant. I dont even know if it was true. She vanished after that. I doubt the boys mine.”
His words unsettle me. Ive always believed in him. I raised him alone, working two jobs to give him a better life. Hes a respected professional now but hasnt started a family. Ive often hinted about grandchildren, dreaming of being a grandma. And now, out of nowhere, a grandson appears.
The next day, I call Sophie. She doesnt sound surprised.
“Oliver turned six in April. No, I wont do a DNA test. I know who his father is. James and I split during my pregnancy. I didnt reach out sooner because I managed on my own. My parents help. Were fine. Im only here for Oliverhe deserves to know his grandmother. You can be part of his life if you want. If not, I understand.”
I hang up and sit in silence for a long time. Part of me cant ignore Jamess doubts. But in Olivers face, I saw something familiarhis smile, his mannerisms. Or was it just my longing to be a grandma?
That evening, I stare out the window, remembering mornings walking James to school, shared meals, his first day at secondary school. Did he really abandon a pregnant woman? Or is Oliver not his?
Yet, despite everything, warmth stirs in me at the thought of Oliverand frustration at myself for doubting. I never asked for proof when James was born. Why demand it from Sophie? Why cant I just believe?
I havent made a decision. I havent called her back. But every time I pass that street, I scan the faces. I dont know if Oliver is my grandson. But I cant forget him. A grandmothers dream doesnt fade so easily. Maybe one day, Ill dial that number. Just to meet the boy who called me “Nana.”
Sometimes, family isnt about blood. Its about heart. And embracing the unknown might bring the loveliest surprises.
