One autumn evening turned my world upside down. I was walking home from work, weary and lost in thoughts of errands and tomorrow’s tasks, when someone called my name. I turned to see a young woman standing there with a boy of about six. She stepped closer and said calmly, *”Margaret Whitmore, my name is Clara, and this is your grandson, William. He’s six now.”*
My vision dimmed. I had never seen either of them before. I stared, wondering if it was some cruel joke. But Clara’s voice held no mischief—only quiet certainty. I glanced around, half-expecting a hidden camera, but the street was empty. This was real.
My only son, Edward, was handsome, confident, and well-placed at a prominent London firm. I had given him everything. His father left when Edward was just two, and from then on, I worked myself ragged—days at the chemist’s, nights scrubbing offices. All so he could have an education, a proper life, a chance to be someone. I never lived—I survived. No holidays, plain bread and butter for meals, the same boots worn thin over years. He was my entire purpose.
Now he’s thirty-two, unmarried, but never short of company. Women came and went like the seasons. I waited, hoping one day he’d bring home someone steady, give me reason to rejoice not in his promotions but in becoming a grandmother.
And then—this. A woman standing before me, claiming the boy at her side was my flesh and blood. *”I didn’t want to say anything at first,”* Clara murmured, *”but William belongs to your family. I’m not asking for anything. Here’s my number. If you ever wish to meet him, just call.”*
They left, and I stood beneath the grey sky, the ground swaying beneath me. At home, I rang Edward at once. At first, he didn’t understand, then reluctantly admitted that yes, years ago, he’d courted a Clara. A fleeting thing—a year, perhaps less. She’d mentioned a child, but he’d brushed it off. *”Who’s to say it’s mine?”* he’d told her. After that, she vanished, and he never looked back.
His voice made my chest tighten. He insisted it could all be lies, that she might have invented it. But Clara’s calm words echoed in my ears, and the boy’s face lingered in my mind—familiar somehow, as if I’d seen him before.
I called Clara. She answered almost at once, voice soft, no demands. William was born in April, she said; she and Edward had parted the autumn before. She wouldn’t ask for a paternity test—she knew who the father was. Her family helped her; she worked, they managed. William had just started Year One. *”If you want to be part of his life, you may. If not, I’ll understand. I came to you not for money or favours. As a mother, I thought you had the right to know.”*
I set the phone down, and the silence in the flat pressed in. A thousand questions swirled. Was he truly my grandson? Should I believe Clara—or Edward? And what if my heart already reached for the boy, for his eyes, his voice?
Two weeks have passed. Every day, I pick up the scrap of paper with her number and hesitate. What if this is fate’s only gift? What if he is mine? But what if it’s all deceit? I don’t know which frightens me more—the lie, or the thought of living out my days never knowing the child who might be my blood.