**A Tough Decision**
“Gran, I don’t want porridge,” whispered Oliver, pushing his bowl away slowly while keeping his eyes fixed on Margaret.
Her daughter used to do the same thing—if she didn’t want soup or porridge, she’d nudge the bowl toward the edge of the table until it tipped over. Where had he picked that up? He couldn’t have seen it. Grown-up Charlotte never did it. Was it in his genes?
She’d scolded her little girl, but she couldn’t bring herself to be cross with Oliver.
“Enough!” she commanded before the bowl could topple. “If you don’t want it, don’t eat it. Have some tea.”
“Can I have a sweet?” Oliver asked.
“No sweets. You already had one before breakfast, and now you’ve spoiled your appetite. No more until lunch.”
“But Graaan,” Oliver whined.
Tears welled in his eyes, his lip trembling—he was on the verge of crying. The little scoundrel knew exactly how to work her, and he used it shamelessly.
*He cries just like his mum used to,* Margaret thought with a pang, ready to give in. But just then, the doorbell rang.
“Take a biscuit,” she said, stepping out of the kitchen.
“Don’t want a biscuit!” Oliver yelled after her, sulking.
Margaret opened the door to find Edward, her son-in-law and Oliver’s father, standing on the doorstep.
“Hello, Margaret. You look wonderful, as always,” he said warmly.
It pleased her, but she answered briskly, “And you too, don’t get poorly. Come in.”
“Dad!” Oliver rushed into the hallway.
Edward bent down and scooped his son up, hugging him tightly.
“You’re getting heavy. So big now!” His eyes glowed with affection.
“What did you bring me?” Oliver asked, wriggling slightly.
“Did you behave? Listen to Gran? No mischief?” Edward glanced at Margaret, who remained silent, looking away.
“Come on, out with it—what did you do?” Edward teased.
“I didn’t eat my porridge. Got told off at nursery—I hit Jack. But it wasn’t my fault! He pushed me first and took my toy car. I hit him back. They punished me, not him.”
“Not fair,” Edward said, shaking his head.
“Oliver, go to your room. I need to talk to your dad.”
Edward set the boy down, pulled a toy car from his coat pocket, and handed it over. Delighted, Oliver scampered off. Edward followed Margaret to the kitchen, sitting at the table while she cleared away the half-eaten porridge and stayed by the sink.
“That Jack’s mother had plenty to say to me. She demanded I punish Oliver. But Jack’s always shoving kids around, then telling tales on them. Kids scrap—it’s normal. Still, we shouldn’t encourage Oliver to hit back,” Margaret said with a pointed look.
“I can’t thank you enough, Margaret, for taking care of my boy. I wouldn’t manage without you.”
“What else could I do? He’s my grandson.” She knew she was being coy. Yes, Oliver was her grandson, but she looked more like his mother than his grandmother.
“Margaret, maybe we should hire a nanny?” Edward always addressed her formally, reinforcing her status. She frowned.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She glanced at him quickly. He was studying her. A woman always knows when a man’s gaze lingers. It made her both flustered and pleased.
She turned back to the sink, fiddling with the tap before shutting it off. *God, I’m nervous. The last thing I need is him noticing.* She crossed her arms and faced him.
“No nanny. Do you think some stranger would care for him better than I do? I won’t hear of it.”
“But he’s demanding. You could have your own life…” Edward hesitated, clearing his throat.
“So could you.” Their eyes met, then darted away.
She’d never understood what a man like Edward saw in her impulsive, flighty daughter. He was fifteen years older than Charlotte—closer to Margaret’s age than hers.
But he’d loved Charlotte. She never doubted that. Sometimes, she’d even envied her. When Charlotte announced her engagement, Margaret had tried to dissuade her.
“He’s older, wiser—you’re still a child. What could you possibly have in common?”
“Mum, we love each other. I’m twenty, not a child. If you say no, I’ll run away. I’m marrying him either way.” Charlotte smirked. “Or maybe you’re just jealous.”
“Don’t rush. Get to know each other.” Margaret hoped Edward would grow disillusioned and call it off. “A man your own age would be better.”
“They’re all boring. Tell me, if you’d met Edward before me, wouldn’t you have married him?”
*She has no idea how right she is,* Margaret admitted silently.
She tried reasoning with Edward too, warning him against marrying her daughter. He was mature—why tie himself to a frivolous girl who couldn’t even cook?
“She’ll learn. I love her, truly. She’ll be happy, I promise.” His certainty left no room for doubt.
They married, and of course, Charlotte dropped out of uni when she got pregnant. She tried hard—ringing Margaret constantly—*How do I make roast beef? Why do my pancakes tear?* And she was a good mother.
When Oliver was old enough for nursery, Charlotte went back to study—part-time. Edward got her a fake job reference at his firm. Then he bought her that wretched motorbike.
Margaret had exploded—*It’s the most dangerous thing on the road! Buy her a car!*
“I taught her to ride. She’s careful,” Edward defended.
“You? I’d never have expected it.” She threw her hands up.
“Why not?” He grinned. “Don’t worry—it’s under control.” He hugged her to reassure her—and she trembled. Thank God he didn’t notice. She’d have died of shame. *His mother-in-law, swooning over him. Disgusting.*
But she was still a woman. A young one.
Margaret had fallen madly in love at eighteen, gotten pregnant immediately. The terrified boy bolted. Her mother forbade an abortion, babysat baby Charlotte while Margaret finished uni. She never remarried, never trusted anyone again.
*If only I’d met Edward then.* Tall, distinguished, with that grown man’s charm. She understood her daughter all too well.
That day, she’d agreed to pick Oliver up from nursery. No premonitions. Charlotte said she was going to watch races—not compete.
On their way back, the bikes were in single file when a speeding SUV misjudged the turn—clipping the last two riders. The lad survived with a broken leg. Charlotte wasn’t so lucky. A week later, she was gone.
Margaret had screamed at Edward—*Why the bike? Why teach her? She’d be alive!* She thought her grief was greater, blind to his. She took Oliver in. Edward didn’t protest—he knew the boy was her lifeline.
Later, he tried to take Oliver back. She begged him not to. He visited often—money, toys, time together. She knew she was selfish, but Oliver had replaced Charlotte.
A year passed. A dreary summer loomed. Edward suggested a seaside holiday.
“Go,” Margaret agreed. “You two need time together.”
“No. You’re coming—you need a break. No arguments,” he said firmly.
“I’ll only be in the way. You’ll meet someone new there…” She turned to the rain-streaked window.
“Don’t be daft. We’re not going without you.”
“Fine,” she relented. Truthfully, she was terrified of letting Edward take a five-year-old abroad alone.
After he left, she rummaged through her wardrobe, holding dresses up in the mirror—until she caught Oliver watching. *Pathetic. Who are you trying to impress?* She shoved them back.
At the hotel, Edward booked her a separate room. On the beach, she stole glances at him—his toned physique, the way women eyed him. He was oblivious, building sandcastles with Oliver. Nearby mums flirted shamelessly. Margaret strode over—Edward scooted aside.
“Oliver, shirt on—your back’s burning,” she said coolly. The mums stiffened. *Good—they think I’m his wife.*
Sleepless nights—his body imprinted on her mind. She couldn’t wait to leave.
Then Edward cut his foot on a sink edge. The bleeding wouldn’t stop—hospital stitches.
The next day, she and Oliver went alone. When they returned, the drowsy boy dozed off. Margaret checked on Edward—he lay shirtless, bandaged leg propped up, flipping through a magazine.
“How are you?” she asked awkwardly.
She turned to leave, but he caught her wrist.
“Stay. Sit with me.”
SheShe hesitated, then sat beside him, feeling the weight of a choice—one that could bring them happiness or shame, but in that moment, she let herself lean into his touch, finally choosing love over fear.
