**A Tough Decision**
“Gran, I don’t want porridge,” little Alfie said quietly, pushing his bowl away while keeping his eyes fixed on Margaret.
It was exactly what her daughter used to do. If she didn’t want soup or porridge, she’d ever so slowly nudge the bowl toward the edge until it toppled onto the floor. How did he pick that up? He’d never seen it, never known. Her grown-up daughter, Emily, never did such a thing. Could it be in his blood?
Margaret had scolded her little girl, but she couldn’t bring herself to be angry with Alfie.
“Stop!” she commanded before the bowl reached the edge. “If you don’t want it, don’t eat it. Have some tea.”
“Can I have a sweet?” Alfie asked.
“No sweets. You already had one before breakfast and ruined your appetite. Nothing more until lunch.”
“But Graaand,” Alfie whined.
Tears welled up in his little eyes, his bottom lip trembling, on the verge of a sob. The little rascal knew exactly how his tears affected her and used it shamelessly.
*He cries just like Emily used to,* Margaret thought, ready to give in. But then the doorbell rang.
“Take a biscuit,” she said, stepping out of the kitchen.
“I don’t *want* a biscuit!” Alfie shouted after her, his voice full of petulance.
Margaret opened the door. On the step stood Daniel, her son-in-law and Alfie’s father.
“Hello, Margaret. You look lovely, as always,” he said warmly.
She was pleased but kept her tone brisk, nodding him inside. “Come in.”
“Dad!” Alfie sprinted into the hallway.
Daniel bent down and swept his son into his arms, holding him close. “You’ve got so heavy! My, how you’ve grown!” His eyes were full of affection.
“What did you bring me?” Alfie asked, wriggling a little in Daniel’s grip.
“Have you been good? Listened to Gran?” Daniel glanced at Margaret. She stayed silent, looking away.
“Come on, out with it—what have you done?” Daniel teased, ruffling Alfie’s hair.
“I didn’t eat my porridge. Got told off at nursery for fighting with Oliver. It wasn’t my fault, he started it! He pushed me and took my toy car. I hit him back. *I* got punished, but he didn’t.”
“Sounds unfair,” Daniel said, shaking his head.
“Alfie, go to your room. I need to talk to your dad.”
Daniel set his son down, pulled a little car from his coat pocket, and handed it over. Delighted, Alfie scampered off. Daniel followed Margaret into the kitchen and sat at the table while she cleared Alfie’s half-eaten porridge away, lingering by the sink.
“That Oliver’s mother gave me an earful. She wanted me to punish Alfie. But Oliver’s always shoving and hitting the other kids before running off to cry about it. Children fight—it’s natural. Still, you shouldn’t encourage Alfie to hit back,” she said, a note of disapproval in her voice.
“I can’t thank you enough, Margaret, for looking after my boy. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“What else would I do? I’m his grandmother.”
She knew she was being coy. Yes, Alfie was her grandson, but she looked more like his mother than his gran.
“Margaret, maybe we should hire a nanny?” Daniel always addressed her formally, emphasizing her place. She winced.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, meeting his eyes briefly.
He was studying her. A woman always knows when a man is looking *that* way. It flustered her—pleased and unsettled her at once.
She turned back to the sink, turning the tap on and off pointlessly. *Good grief, I’m nervous. The last thing I need is for him to notice.* Folding her arms, she faced him again.
“No nanny. You think some stranger would care for your son better than me? I won’t hear of it.”
“But he’s a handful. You could have your own life… meet someone.” Daniel faltered, clearing his throat.
“You could too.”
Their eyes met briefly before both glanced away.
She’d never understood what a man like Daniel saw in her flighty, impulsive daughter. He was fifteen years older than Emily, closer to Margaret’s age than hers.
But he’d loved Emily—that much was clear. Margaret had even felt a twinge of envy. When Emily announced she was getting married, Margaret had tried to talk her out of it.
“He’s older, wiser, and you’re barely more than a child. What could you possibly have in common?”
“Mum, we love each other. I’m *twenty*. If you say no, I’ll leave. I’m marrying him regardless. You’re just jealous,” Emily had shot back.
“Don’t rush. Get to know each other first.” Margaret had hoped Daniel would realise Emily wasn’t right for him. “A man your own age would be better.”
“They’re all boring. Tell me—if you’d met Daniel before me, wouldn’t *you* have married him?” Emily had grinned.
*She has no idea how right she is,* Margaret had thought.
She’d tried reasoning with Daniel too, warning him against marrying her daughter. He was mature—why tie himself to someone so young, so inexperienced?
“She’ll learn. I’m mad about her. She’ll be happy—trust me.”
And she had been. Emily and Daniel married. Of course, she dropped out of uni when she fell pregnant straightaway. She’d tried so hard to be a good wife, phoning Margaret daily—*How do I make borscht? Why do my pancakes tear?* And she’d been a wonderful mother.
When Alfie started nursery, Emily returned to uni part-time. Daniel arranged a fake job at his firm for her records. Then he bought her that blasted motorbike.
Margaret had screamed at him—”It’s the *most* dangerous way to travel! Buy her a car!”
“I taught her properly. She’s a good rider,” he’d said.
Margaret had scoffed. “You ride too? I expected better.”
“Why not?” Daniel had smirked. “Relax, it’s under control,” he’d said, pulling her into a reassuring hug.
She’d trembled at his touch. Thank God he hadn’t noticed—she’d have died of shame. His *mother-in-law*, melting at his embrace. Disgusting.
But she was still a woman. A young woman.
Margaret had fallen hard at eighteen, lost her head, and—of course—gotten pregnant. The terrified boy had bolted. Her mother had forbidden an abortion, babysat Emily while Margaret finished her degree. She’d never remarried, too wary to trust again.
If only she’d met Daniel back then. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that quiet, mature charm. She understood why Emily had been smitten.
That day, she’d agreed to pick Alfie up from nursery. No premonitions. Emily had said she was going to watch some races out of town—not compete, just spectate.
On their way back, the bikes had been in single file when a 4×4 shot out from a side road, misjudging speed. It clipped the last two riders, sending them skidding into the ditch. The lad survived with just a broken leg. Emily had severe head trauma. A week later, she was gone.
Margaret had blamed Daniel.
“Why did you buy her that bike? Why teach her? She’d be alive, have the daughter she wanted!” she’d screamed at her haggard, grief-stricken son-in-law.
She’d thought her pain was greater, not realising his matched it. She’d taken Alfie in. Daniel hadn’t objected—he knew the boy was her lifeline.
Later, he’d tried to reclaim his son, but Margaret had begged to keep him. Daniel visited often, bringing money, toys, spending time with Alfie. She knew she was selfish, but Alfie filled the void Emily had left.
A year passed. Summer loomed, grey and damp. Daniel suggested a seaside holiday.
“Go,” Margaret said. “You and Alfie need time together.”
“No, you’re coming too. You need a break. No arguments,” he insisted.
“I’ll just be in the way. You shouldn’t be alone forever. You might meet someone there…” She turned to the rain-streaked window.
“Don’t be daft. We won’t go without you.”
“Fine,” she gave in.
Truthfully, she was terrified of Daniel taking five-year-old Alfie abroad alone.
After he left, she rifled through her wardrobe, holding sundresses up to the mirror. Suddenly, she caught Alfie watching her from the sofa. Flushing, she shoved the clothes back. *Who are you trying to impress? You’re his late wife’s motherOne evening, as the three of them sat by the fire, Alfie curled between them, Margaret finally let herself take Daniel’s hand and knew, without a doubt, that love had found its way back to her.
