21April2025
Today I finally found a reason to write down what has been gnawing at me for months. Katherine hasnt been in her sons flat for agesnot by choice, not by chance. The tears ran dry long ago; grief turned into a dull, endless ache that felt like a weight you could never shift.
James was twentyeight, healthy as a horse, never complained. Hed finished university, held a steady job at a citybased firm, hit the gym three times a week and was dating a girl named Hannah. Two months ago he went to bed and never woke up.
Katherine and I split when James was six; I was thirty then. The breakup was the usual storyinfidelity, more than once. I stopped paying child support and vanished. James grew up without a father, relying on his grandparents for help. Over the years a few men drifted into my life, but I never had the courage to marry again.
I made a living on my own. First I rented a small stall in a Tesco to sell spectacles and frames; I was an ophthalmologist, after all. Then I took out a loan, bought a proper shop on a side street in Manchester, and turned it into a respectable optical centre with a consultation room of my own. I built a client list, gave advice, fitted glasses.
Last year James bought a onebedroom flat for himself, right next to the block where I lived. We did a modest refurbishmentnew paint, a fresh carpet. It could have been a fresh start.
Dust was everywhere. I was sweeping the floor when I pushed the sofa aside and a phone fell out from somewhere behind it. I couldnt locate the rest of it, so I put the device on charge.
Later, sitting on the kitchen chair with tears welling again, I stared at the pictures on his phone: James at work, James on a holiday with friends, James with his girlfriend Hannah, smiling. I opened Viber and at the top of the chat list was a message from an old university mate, Daniel. The attachment was a photo of a young woman holding a little boy. The boy was the spittingimage of my grandson, Charlie.
Remember when we spent NewYears Eve at Lucys flat back in uni? Lucy had a friend who lived opposite her. I ran into that friend and her sonwhat a kid! Snap a picture for old times sake. The message had been sent a week before the tragedy. So James had known about this child and never mentioned it to me. The whole thing feels like a cruel joke.
I knew where Daniel lived. The next day after work I drove to the address hed given me. The little boy, Charlie, was there, zipping around the courtyard on a bike, asking anyone who passed to let him ride. I knelt beside him.
Dont you have a bike of your own? I asked.
He shook his head.
A young woman in her early twenties approached, heavy makeup that didnt suit her delicate face.
Who are you? she asked.
Im his grandmother, I replied, trying to sound comforting.
She stared at me, then introduced herself. Im Mabel, Charlies mother. Nice to meet you.
I took them to the local café. Charlie ordered an icecream; Mabel took a coffee. Over the steam, she told me her story.
Six years ago she left a small village in the north of England, only seventeen, and trained as a seamstress at a technical college. Over the Christmas break her friend Lucy invited her to stay for the holidays. Lucys parents were away visiting relatives, and Lucys boyfriend Daniel came over to celebrate with them. It was there that Mabel and James fell together. James left his number, promising to keep in touch, but never called.
When Mabel discovered she was pregnant, she phoned James herself. He was angry, shouted at her, and said proper women should handle contraception themselves. He gave her enough money to terminate the pregnancy and told her to disappear from his life forever. She never saw him again.
Mabel didnt finish her course. She was kicked out of the dorm with the baby. Her mother had died years before, and her father and brother were both drinkhabitual, so returning to the village was impossible. She now rents a tiny room from an elderly widow, looking after Charlie while she works. The rent takes almost all her earnings, and a place in a good nursery is still out of reach. She works for a private dumpling shop, earning modest wages, but they get by.
The following day I helped them move into Jamess flat. From that moment my life took a different turn.
Charlie was placed in a decent private nursery. I found myself buying clothes for both Mabel and the little boy, taking an eager interest in their daytoday needs. He reminded me of James in every wayhis stare, his gestures, even his stubborn streak.
I began to look after Mabel, teaching her how to apply makeup properly, how to dress for herself, how to keep the house tidy, how to cook simple meals. In short, I became a mentor.
One evening we were all perched on the sofa, watching the telly. Charlie clutched my arm, pressed his head to my shoulder and said, Youre my favourite, Grandma. In that instant the hollow feeling that had lived in my chest for years vanished. Grief no longer sat on me like a stone. I realized I had slipped back into a life that could hold joy, all because of this small, bright soul.
Two years have passed. Mabel and I escorted Charlie to his first day at primary school. She now works as my assistant in the optical centre; shes indispensable. She has a boyfriend who seems serious about settling down. I have no objectionlife moves on, and it must.
It seems I, too, might be headed toward marriage. An old, trustworthy friend keeps urging me to consider it. Why not? Im still standing, still independent, still with a healthy figure, and Im fiftyfour years old. Perhaps its time to welcome something new.
Lesson: Even when the darkness feels eternal, a single bright sparkbe it a childs laughter, a helping hand, or an unexpected friendshipcan pull you back into the light. You just have to be ready to let it in.
