**Diary Entry – 12th October**
I was on my way home from work, exhausted as usual, mind buzzing with thoughts of dinner and tomorrow’s meeting, when a voice called out behind me:
“Excuse me! Mrs. Thompson?”
I turned to see a young woman with a boy around six years old. Her voice wavered slightly, but her eyes were steady.
“I’m Emily,” she said. “And this is your grandson, Oliver. He’s six now.”
At first, I thought it was some ridiculous prank. I didn’t recognise her—or the boy. My head spun from the shock.
“Sorry, but… you must be mistaken?” was all I managed.
Emily didn’t falter. “No mistake. Your son is Oliver’s father. I kept quiet for years, but I realised you had a right to know. I’m not asking for anything. Here’s my number—if you want to meet him, call me.”
Then she walked away, leaving me stunned on the pavement, clutching a scrap of paper, my fists tightening. I immediately rang my only son, William.
“Mum, what’s wrong?”
“William, did you ever date a woman named Emily? Do you have a child?”
“There was an Emily, briefly. She started acting strangely, then claimed she was pregnant. Honestly, I don’t know if it’s true—she vanished after that. It might not even be mine.”
His answer unsettled me. I’ve always trusted William. I raised him alone, working two jobs, sacrificing everything so he’d have a better life. He’s successful, respected—but never settled down. I’d begged him to think about children, longing to be a grandmother. And now, out of nowhere, here was a boy who might be my grandson.
Two days later, I called Emily. She wasn’t surprised.
“Ollie’s six. Born in April. And no, I won’t do a paternity test. I *know* who his father is. We split when I was pregnant. I didn’t come forward sooner because I could handle it alone. My parents help. We’re fine. I only did this for Ollie—he deserves to know his grandmother. You can be part of his life if you want. If not, I’ll understand.”
I hung up and sat in silence. Part of me couldn’t dismiss William’s doubts—but in Oliver’s smile, his mannerisms, I saw something familiar. Or was that just wishful thinking?
That night, I stared out the window, remembering William’s childhood—dropping him at nursery, sharing porridge, his first day at school. Could he really have abandoned a child? Or was Oliver not his?
Even so, I felt this odd warmth thinking about Ollie—and guilt for doubting. I never asked for proof when William was born. Why demand it now? Why couldn’t I just trust my instincts?
I haven’t decided yet. I haven’t called back. But every time I pass that street where we met, I scan the crowd. I don’t *know* if Ollie’s my grandson. But I can’t let go of the fantasy either. The longing to be a grandmother hasn’t faded. Maybe soon, I’ll dial that number again. Even if it’s just to meet the boy who called me *grandma*.
