I was coming home from work, tired as usual, lost in thoughts about dinner and the meeting the next day, when I heard a voice behind me:
Excuse me!ÉlodieBertrand?
I turned. A young woman stood there with a boy about six years old. Her tone was hesitant, but her eyes were steady.
My name is Camille, she said. And this is your grandson, Théo. Hes already six.
At first I thought it was a joke. Neither she nor the child looked familiar, and the surprise made my head spin.
Sorry, but you must be mistaken? I managed to say.
Camille continued confidently:
No, Im not wrong. Your son is Théos father. Ive kept quiet for a long time, but I think you have a right to know. Im not asking for anything. Heres my number. If you want to meet him, call me.
She walked away, leaving me stunned, the slip of paper clenched in my hand, fists tight. I ran to call Julien, my only son.
Julien, have you ever been with a woman named Camille? Do you have a child?
Mom, finally it was brief. She was strange, then she claimed she was pregnant. I dont know if it was true. She disappeared afterward. I doubt its my son.
Her words rattled me. On one hand I had always believed in Julien. I had raised him alone, working two jobs so he could have a better life. He became a respected professional, never settled down. I often talked about grandchildren, dreaming of being a grandmother. And now a grandson appeared out of nowhere.
The next day I called Camille. She didnt seem surprised.
Théo is six, born in April. No, I wont do any test. I know who his father is. We split up during my pregnancy. I didnt contact Julien earlier because I was handling things on my own. My parents help me. Were fine. Im only reaching out for Théo: he deserves to know his grandmother. If you want to be part of his life, youre welcome. If not, Ill understand.
I hung up and stayed silent for a long time. Part of me couldnt ignore Juliens doubts; another part saw something familiar in Théos smile, his gestures. Was it just my longing to be a grandmother?
That night I stared out the window at the darkness, recalling the mornings I took Julien to school, our shared meals, his first day back. Had he really left a pregnant woman? Or was this child not his?
Yet, despite everything, a strange warmth filled me at the thought of Théo, alongside a selfdirected anger for my doubts. I hadnt demanded proof when Julien was born. Why demand it from Camille now? Why couldnt I simply believe?
I havent decided anything. I havent called her back. But each time I walk that street I scan faces, wondering if Théo is really my grandson. I cant forget him. A grandmothers dream doesnt die easily. Maybe someday Ill dial that number, if only to meet the boy who called me grandma.
Sometimes family isnt about blood, but about heart, and embracing the unknown can bring the most wonderful surprises.
