**Diary Entry – 27th September**
I was heading home from work, worn out as usual, my mind tangled up in thoughts of dinner and tomorrow’s meeting, when I heard a voice behind me.
“Excuse me—Mrs. Thompson?”
I turned. A young woman stood there, gripping the hand of a boy about six years old. Her voice wavered, but her gaze held steady.
“My name’s Emily,” she said. “And this… this is your grandson, William. He’s six now.”
At first, I thought it some absurd joke. I didn’t recognise her—or the boy. My head buzzed with shock.
“Sorry, but… you must have the wrong person?” was all I managed.
Emily didn’t flinch. “No mistake. Your son is William’s father. I kept quiet for years, but I decided you deserved to know. I’m not asking for anything. Here’s my number—call if you want to meet him.”
Then she walked away, leaving me stunned on the pavement, clutching that slip of paper, my fists tightening. I dialled James—my only son—straight away.
“Mum, listen—we dated briefly. She acted odd, then claimed she was pregnant. I don’t know—maybe she made it up. She vanished after that. I can’t say for sure he’s mine.”
His answer gnawed at me. I’d always trusted James. Raised him alone, worked two jobs, scraped by just so he’d have more. He’s a good man, respected at his firm—but never settled down. I’d begged him for grandchildren. And now, out of nowhere… one lands in my lap.
Two days later, I rang Emily. She wasn’t surprised.
“Will’s six. Born in April. And no, I won’t do a test. I *know* who his father is. We split when I was pregnant. I came forward now because he deserves to know he has a grandmother. You can be part of his life—if you want. If not… I understand.”
I hung up and sat in silence. Part of me couldn’t dismiss James’ doubts. But something in Will’s smile, his manner—something *familiar*—tugged at me. Or was that just wishful thinking?
That night, I stared out the window, remembering James as a boy—carrying him to nursery, sharing bowls of porridge, his first day at school. Could he really have walked away from his own child? Or was this boy a stranger?
Even so, warmth curled in my chest at the thought of Will—and guilt, too, for doubting. I’d never asked for proof when James was born. Why demand it now?
I haven’t decided yet. Haven’t called back. But every time I pass that spot where we met, I scan the faces. I don’t know if Will’s truly my grandson. But I can’t let go of the idea, either. That hope won’t die. Maybe soon, I’ll dial that number. If only to meet the boy who called me “Grandma.”
*Lesson learned: The heart clings to what it wants to believe, even when the mind resists. Sometimes, risking faith is easier than living with doubt.*
