**Diary Entry – 12th April**
When Edward walked out, leaving me alone with our one-year-old son, it felt as though the sky had collapsed. No warning, no remorse—just gone, without a penny to our name, as if Oliver had never mattered to him. Twenty years passed, and I carried it all—work, bills, raising a son. All I ever wanted was for Oliver to grow up better than his father. And he did.
He earned a place at medical school through sheer grit, no favours called in. Graduated top of his class, landed a good job straight away. No mother could be prouder. Yet something gnawed at me—Oliver never spoke of love, never brought a girl home.
*”Darling, when will I meet the woman in your life?”* I’d tease.
*”Too soon, Mum,”* he’d laugh. *”Need to stand on my own two feet first.”*
Then my old friend Margaret, who’d helped me raise him, dropped by. *”My granddaughter Emily’s the same—bright, beautiful, but always alone. Remember how they played as children? Maybe they should meet.”*
Two weeks later, Emily came for tea. Margaret arranged it all, even inviting us. The evening was lovely, full of warmth and laughter. Like something from a book. After that, Oliver started vanishing on weekends, coming home late. My heart leapt—was this it?
*”Son, are you and Emily…?”*
*”No, Mum. Haven’t seen her since. I’m with Sophie.”*
Sophie? A stranger, with a child no less?
*”Mum, she’s wonderful. But I kept her away—worried you’d judge. She’s busy raising her boy.”*
*”Sophie? A son? She’s using you!”* I snapped. *”You’re all I have—I won’t let her take advantage!”*
We rowed. He stormed out. Days passed in silence until I bumped into them in Hyde Park. Oliver was holding hands with a little boy—five, maybe.
*”Goodness, Oliver—he looks just like you!”*
*”This is George. My son. Sophie had him at uni. I panicked back then… Now I see how stupid I was.”*
My heart cracked. We talked for hours. Later, he arranged for us to meet.
I spent the whole day fussing, cooking—nervous. That evening, Sophie stepped into my home. Kind, gentle, warm. The night was easy, joyful—until her phone lit up: *”Mum.”* The contact photo stole my breath. There she was—the woman who’d taken Edward from me.
*”Oliver… who is that?”*
*”Sophie’s mum… Why?”*
*”Son… she’s the one your father left me for.”*
His face paled. *”Then—Sophie and I—are we… siblings?”*
*”No. I was already pregnant—by someone else. Your father found out and left. He’s no father to you.”*
I called Sophie’s mother. The conversation was raw, painful, but honest. Two mothers who’d raised children alone, finally understanding. The past didn’t matter anymore—just George, just their happiness.
Now, Sophie and Oliver are planning a future. George has two grandmothers who hug, not argue. Life has a way of setting things right. And sometimes, over tea, Sophie’s mum and I smile—because through all the pain, we’ve somehow become family.