I have two children. Both of my children have different fathers. My first child is a daughter. Her name is Alice, and shes sixteen now. Alices father pays child support and keeps in close touch with her. Even though my first husband is remarried now and has two more children with his new wife, he never forgets about our daughter.
My son, on the other hand, hasnt been as fortunate. Two years ago, my second husband fell ill, and three days later he passed away at St Thomass Hospital. Time has gone by, but I still struggle to accept that hes truly gone. Often, I find myself imagining the front door opening, expecting him to walk in, smile at me, and wish me good morning. Those days I weep and cant seem to do much else.
Throughout all of this, Ive shared a special closeness with my late husbands mother, Margaret. Its been just as hard for her as it was for me; after all, he was her only son. We banded together, giving each other comfort and company as we navigated those dreadful days. We called each other often, and visited too, talking about him as if he could still hear us.
At one point, the idea crossed our minds to move in together, but then Margaret changed hers, and somehow seven years slipped away. My relationship with her was always lovely, more like two friends than the traditional in-laws.
I remember when I found out I was expecting, Margaret brought up paternity testingthough Im not sure what prompted it. Apparently, shed watched a television programme featuring a man discovering, after years, that his child wasnt really his. I told her it was nonsense.
If a man doubts the child is his, hell never properly look after that child, only ever popping in on Sundays.
Margaret said she firmly believed I was having her sons child. I was sure shed push for a paternity test the moment my son was born but, curiously, she never mentioned it again.
This summer, Margaret became terribly ill and her health spiralled down. It seemed best for her to move closer to me, so I started working with an estate agent to buy a flat for her.
Soon after, Margaret was admitted to hospital, and I needed her late sons death certificate for the estate agent. Margaret couldn’t manage, so I went to her flat and started digging through her files.
While searching for the paperwork, I discovered something peculiara paternity test. Evidently, when my boy was barely two months old, Margaret had arranged for the test and it confirmed that my husband was indeed his father.
I was shocked. It turned out she had never believed me! I confronted her, told her everything that was churning inside me. Now Margaret apologises profusely, saying she regrets her silly mistake. But I cant shake this feeling. Its as if I’ve been betrayedher silence gnawing at me for all these years.
I feel reluctant now to help Margaret. And yet, I understand shes got nobody else to turn to.
I wont deny my son his grandmother, so Ill keep supporting her. But the warmth and trust between us is gone now, lost in the haze of a dream I cant quite wake from.
