I watch him sometimes, my grandson. He’s a good man, truly. Kind, gentle, but so lost since
well, since everything fell apart. He carries a quiet sadness, a weight that breaks my heart to witness. He deserves joy, a partner, someone to share his life with. I ache to see him smile like he used to, that bright, carefree glint in his eyes. It’s my fault, partly. All of it. The past always catches up.
Then she started working with me. A new colleague, fresh out of college, but with an old soul. She’s brilliant, yes, but it’s her warmth, her genuine empathy, that captivated me. She’d listen patiently to my rambling stories about family, about life, always with a soft smile. She had this way about her, a quiet strength, an innate goodness that just drew you in. I kept thinking, she’s exactly what he needs. She could heal him.
A child eating dessert | Source: Pexels
The idea started as a whisper, then grew into a roar in my mind. What if I introduced them? But my grandson is so reserved, so wary of being set up. And she’s private, too. It would have to be subtle. A casual, chance encounter. A coffee date that wasn’t a date. My heart pounded with a mix of hope and trepidation every time I thought of it. It felt like I was playing God, meddling where I shouldn’t, but my love for him was a driving force. I wanted him to be happy so desperately.
I worked on it for weeks, carefully, subtly. A shared interest here, a dropped hint there. Eventually, I managed to orchestrate it. A quiet café, just off the main street, on a Saturday afternoon. I told my grandson I needed help picking out a gift for a mutual friend, knowing he’d agree. I told my colleague I had an extra ticket to a quaint art exhibition opening, knowing her passion for art. It was a lie, a beautiful, fragile lie, woven with the purest intentions. They wouldn’t know I was there, just across the street, watching, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs.
I saw them arrive. My grandson, looking handsome despite his usual melancholy, a little hesitant. And then her, glowing, her laugh echoing softly as she navigated the crowded street. They were both early, just as I’d hoped. My breath hitched in my throat. This was it. The moment I had dreamed of, prayed for.
They spotted each other. Not quite simultaneously, but close enough. My grandson looked up from his phone, a flicker of polite curiosity on his face. She turned, caught his eye as she adjusted her bag. Time seemed to slow. The usual bustling cafe sounds faded.
A happy woman | Source: Pexels
Their eyes met.
And my world shattered.
It wasn’t a polite greeting. It wasn’t the hesitant recognition of strangers who’d heard of each other. It was something primal. An instant, undeniable jolt that ripped through the air between them, and straight through my very soul. My colleague’s eyes widened, a strange mixture of awe and confusion painting her features. My grandson… his jaw dropped, his gaze fixed, absolutely glued to her face. A vein pulsed in his temple. He looked like he’d seen a ghost, or a mirror, or both.
It was the face.
No. It couldn’t be.
A cold dread seeped into my bones, replacing the hopeful warmth. My hands flew to my mouth, stifling a gasp that threatened to tear from my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could unsee what I had just witnessed, unfeel the sickening twist in my gut. But when I opened them, they were still staring. My grandson’s eyes, usually so guarded, were wide with a disturbing, undeniable familiarity. And her eyes… they held the same shock, the same dawning terror.
The curve of her nose. The exact set of her jaw. The way her hair fell, just like… NO. IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE.
My vision blurred. A phantom touch on my arm, a ghostly whisper from decades ago. I remembered a different face, a younger face, but the features… THE FEATURES. They were unmistakable. My colleague wasn’t just like him. She wasn’t just a good match.
She was the spitting image of my own son. My grandson’s father.
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And that’s when the horrifying, sickening truth, the secret I had buried deep for fifty years, clawed its way out of the darkness and choked me. My colleague, this wonderful, bright young woman I had so carefully, so lovingly tried to set up with my grandson…
She wasn’t just a stranger. She was my daughter.
My firstborn. The child I gave away in secret, believing it was the only way to save my reputation, to save my future, to save my husband’s career from the scandal of an ill-timed pregnancy before our marriage. The child I convinced myself was better off with a family who could provide for her, love her, without the shadow of shame I would have cast. SHE WAS THEIR AUNT.
I had tried to make my grandson fall in love with his own aunt, his father’s long-lost, half-sister, whom I had denied and erased from our family history.
MY OWN DAUGHTER.
The world spun. I pressed my forehead against the cold glass of the cafe window, the bustling street a blur. The faces of my grandson and my colleague, frozen in that horrifying tableau of recognition, burned behind my eyelids. I hadn’t set them up for love. I had orchestrated a meeting with an unspeakable, generational horror.
I asked my colleague to meet my single grandson in secret — and my heart didn’t just stop when they laid eyes on each other. It shattered into a million pieces, because I realized I had just introduced my grandson to his own aunt, a secret I had buried for fifty years, nearly condemning them to a love that was an ABOMINATION.
A hospital’s ’emergency’ sign | Source: Pexels