The Unwanted Son
“Mum, could we send Charlie to stay with you this weekend?” Emily fiddled with the strap of her handbag, avoiding her mother’s gaze. “He misses you, and we could use a bit of a break.”
“Of course, love,” Margaret replied with a warm smile.
Charlie had always been a regular visitor at his grandmother’s. From his earliest days, he’d practically grown up in her arms. After his birth, Emily had thrown herself back into work, and Margaret, uncomfortable in her son-in-law’s home, had taken the baby under her wing—feeding him, walking him in the park, rocking him to sleep, all with endless patience and love.
Formula milk didn’t come cheap, but despite her modest pension, Margaret helped however she could—sometimes with cash, other times ordering supplies herself.
As Charlie grew, his stays lengthened from days to weeks. There was a good nursery near Margaret’s flat, and she enrolled him there. Weekends were theirs alone—bike rides, baking biscuits, making dumplings. Charlie was the light of her life.
Things slowly improved for Emily’s family—money wasn’t so tight anymore. But soon, she was pregnant again. Margaret sighed at the news, thinking they’d rushed into a second child, but she kept her thoughts to herself.
When little Oliver arrived, Margaret stepped in once more. Then, not long after, Emily announced a third was on the way—a girl this time. The two-bedroom flat was bursting at the seams. There simply wasn’t room for Charlie anymore, so he all but moved in with his grandmother.
“Charlie says he wants to live with you,” Emily admitted one evening as she rocked baby Lily.
“Well, he already does,” Margaret replied with a tired smile. There was more exhaustion than joy in it.
Charlie was wise beyond his years—kind, dutiful, and self-reliant. By eight, he could fry eggs, bake pancakes, and even make a simple soup. He helped with chores, shopping, and even looked after Margaret when she fell ill.
With Oliver and Lily, things were different. They were loud, spoiled, and demanding. When Margaret visited, they’d scramble through her bag for sweets, whining and stamping their feet if they found none.
“Gran’s got some money for you,” Emily would soothe.
“Money? What money?” Margaret asked, baffled.
She had occasionally given Charlie pocket money—he lived there, after all. But Emily made it sound like an obligation, as though she owed them.
“Mum, just a tenner each, at least,” Emily brushed her off, unwilling to spoil the evening.
After that, Margaret visited less and less, dreading the chaos whenever the younger ones came over. They screamed, wrecked her things, and never listened. Lily once poured an entire pot of face powder down the toilet, and Oliver broke an antique clock.
One night, Emily confided in her husband.
“It’s not just food I’m thinking about. It’s the house. Mum’s got savings—a big sum. After Dad passed, we sold the garage, the cars, the holiday cottage…”
“Right. That’s when you bought the new car,” James nodded.
“But Mum kept most of it. I only got a quarter—the solicitor confirmed it was all legal. She could’ve split it fairly.”
“Think about it—you’ve got three kids to raise. What’s she saving for? She could help the grandkids. Or at least help you buy a place.”
Emily hesitated to ask directly. But one day, she finally did.
“Mum, what are you planning to do with your savings?”
“Keeping them for emergencies. What if one of us needs surgery, or urgent care, God forbid? Or sudden help?”
“Or, say, a house deposit,” Emily hinted.
“That too. The money’s there. When the time comes, I’ll know what to do.”
From that, Emily drew her own conclusion: *She’ll divide it later.* She was even sure her mother would surprise her on her 35th birthday. But the surprise was an envelope with two hundred pounds. It stung.
When Charlie turned eighteen, Margaret took everyone to his favourite café.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s all paid for. Let him celebrate with his friends—you just be there.”
Emily’s gift was a football scarf. She didn’t even know which team he supported—just grabbed the first one she saw. Then came the moment no one expected.
“Charlie,” Margaret said softly, “here are the keys to your flat. I bought it last year. It’s all ready. Live there and be happy.”
The boy flushed, tears streaming as he hugged her, his voice trembling with thanks. Emily, however, went pale.
After the party, she stormed into her mother’s home.
“You had no right! It’s not fair! Why didn’t you split it between all the grandchildren?”
“Because he’s the only one I raised,” Margaret said calmly. “He wasn’t just a guest—he was my son.”
“Then you’re no mother to me!” Emily shouted, slamming the door on her way out.
Then the pressure shifted to Charlie. His mother called, insisting he sell the flat and share the money. He stayed silent. Margaret understood and told him firmly:
“Don’t listen to anyone. That flat is yours. Never be ashamed of what I’ve given you. You’re the only one who’s truly mine.”
From then on, Charlie cut ties with his parents. His family was Margaret and her love. When she fell ill, he and his wife cared for her—no one else came. Not Emily, not the younger ones.
Margaret rewrote her will—everything went to Charlie. And he whispered to her:
“You were never just my gran. You were my family. That’s how it’ll always be.”
Love isn’t measured by blood, but by the time and care we give. Only those who truly invest their hearts earn the right to call themselves family.
