The air in the kitchen felt thick, suffocating.
“Take him, someoneplease,” Emily murmured, her fingers twisting the edge of the tablecloth.
“Emily, have you lost your mind? Take him? Oliver is your son! You cant just hand him off like some unwanted parcel!” Margaret stood frozen, gripping a tea towel so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Emily leaned back in her chair, feigning indifference. “Mum, must you always be so dramatic? Im not obliged to sacrifice my entire life for a child. Im only thirty-two, in case youve forgotten.”
Margaret sank into the chair opposite, a cold dread settling in her chest.
“Ive finally found a decent man, Mum,” Emily continued, her voice brittle. “James has proposed. We want to start fresh, build a life together. And Oliver well, hed just be in the way. You understand, dont you? New relationships need space.”
“Oliver is twelve, Emily!” Margarets voice cracked. “He needs his mother. Hell know youve tossed him aside forfor James!”
Emily flinched but quickly smoothed her expression with a dismissive wave. “Itll be fine, Mum. Dont overreact. I deserve a life too, dont I? Hes old enough to manage.”
Margaret barely recognised the woman before her. When had her sweet girl become so callous? She rose and moved to the window.
“No, Emily. Absolutely not.” Margaret turned, her voice firm. “You cant abandon your own child.”
“Oh, here we go again!” Emily snatched her handbag from the chair. “I thought youd understand, support me. But fineIll sort it myself.”
The door slammed behind her. Margaret stood motionless, staring at the closed door, her heart heavy with foreboding.
Three months later, Margaret stood in a banquet hall, watching her daughters wedding unfold. Laughter and music filled the air, but joy eluded her. She smiled politely, exchanged pleasantries, yet unease coiled inside her.
Finally, she approached the newlyweds. James regaled his friends with some animated tale, while Emily beamed beside him in ivory lace.
“Emily,” Margaret touched her daughters shoulder. “Wheres Oliver? I dont see him here.”
Emily whirled around, eyes flashing. She yanked Margaret aside, her grip tight. “Mum, have you lost it? Why bring him up now?”
“Where is your son?” Margaret pressed.
Emily stiffened, gaze darting away. “James doesnt get on with him. Oliver stayed home. No point ruining the day, is there? Hed have been bored stiff.”
Margaret recoiled. “You left a twelve-year-old alone on your wedding day? Because your new husband dislikes him? Emily, whats happened to you?”
“Dont make a scene!” Emily hissed, glancing at the guests. “This is my day. Dont spoil it.”
Margaret turned on her heel and left.
Outside, she hailed a cab. “Primrose Lane, number eighteen,” she told the driver.
Her mind raced. Oliver, alonehis father long gone, now his mother too?
She reached the flat and knocked.
“Oliver, its Gran! Open up, love!”
Footsteps shuffled inside. The door creaked open, revealing Olivertousled-haired, eyes red-rimmed.
“Gran, really you?”
“Of course, sweetheart.” She pulled him into a fierce embrace.
His voice trembled. “Gran does Mum not love me anymore? She left me here. Said not to answer the door.”
Margaret held him tighter. “Pack your things, love. Youre coming home with me.”
As Oliver gathered his belongings, Margaret sent a single text:
*Oliver is staying with me.*
The reply was instant:
*See? I suggested that ages ago. Shouldve listened.*
She powered off her phone.
Oliver settled into Emilys old room. At first, he was withdrawn, but Margaret coaxed him gently.
“Oliver, fancy learning to make the best cheese scones in England?”
He nodded, and together they mixed dough, her hands guiding his.
“Gran why doesnt Mum ever call?”
Margaret paused, then smoothed his hair. “Grown-ups make mistakes, love. Big ones. But its not your fault. Youre wonderful, and I love you dearly.”
Time passed. Oliver joined a swim team and coding club, blooming under her care. Years slipped byhe grew tall, confident. Emily called only for paperwork, or when she needed something. Photos online showed her with James and their new daughter, radiant.
On Olivers eighteenth birthday, after the guests left, Margaret turned to him.
“Theres something you should know,” she said, drying a plate. “The flat your mother lives in its yours.”
Oliver froze.
“Mine?”
“Your father he passed when you were five. But he left a will. The flat was always yoursshe just managed it till you turned eighteen.”
Oliver exhaled slowly. “So its legally mine?”
Margaret nodded.
For days, Oliver was quiet, pensive. Then, one morning, the phone rangEmily, after three years of silence.
“Mum, what have you done?!” she shrieked. “Olivers threatening to evict us!”
Margaret sighed. “Its his flat, Emily. His father ensured that.”
“But where will we live? I have a family!”
“Ask James to provide. You cant keep a home that belongs to the boy you cast aside.”
She hung up and turnedOliver stood in the doorway, smiling faintly.
“Thank you, Gran.”
She smiled back. “Well make it right.”
He hugged her tightly, just as shed held him years ago.
“Youve been my mum and dad,” he whispered. “Ill never leave you. Were family.”
