Freya got pregnant young, and her parents threw her out of the house. Fifteen years later, they showed up to see their daughter and grandson. What they saw left them staggered…

We were wrong, and you’ve got every right to shut us out. But your boy… She glanced at Sigrid, pride cutting through her grief. He’s incredible.

A surgeon, saving lives. My grandson. I’m so proud, and I hate that we missed it all.

Freya hadn’t spoken to her parents since that frigid night, when she’d walked out of their house with a duffel bag and a broken heart. She’d cut them off clean, blocked calls, returned unopened letters. Built a wall they couldn’t breach.

Paul and Ellen only got scraps of her life through Eleanor, who’d relay updates in clipped, reluctant tones over the years. Freya’s working at the diner. Sigrid’s born.

Healthy boy. She’s managing fine. Now, standing in the driveway, Paul turned to Sigrid, his voice thick with tears.

Grandson, we’re family. You’ve got to know that. Sigrid’s arm tightened around Freya, his jaw set, hazel eyes hard.

He hugged her closer, then faced Paul. My family’s right here. Mum, Dad, Grandma.

That’s who raised me. But Mum’s always been good to guests. If she says you can come in for tea, you’re welcome.

Freya wiped her eyes, steadying herself. Her lips pressed thin, her tears drying into resolve. She glanced at Sigrid, then nodded once, Kurt.

Come in. We’ll have tea. Her voice was ice, but it cracked the door open just enough.

Paul nodded, wiping his face with a shaky hand, and Ellen murmured a choked, Thank you. Sigrid hung back, watching them shuffle toward the house, his grandparents, strangers with his mum’s eyes, his mind reeling. Freya squeezed his hand as she passed, a silent we’ll figure it out.

The door creaked shut behind them, the warm glow spilling onto the lawn, and Sigrid followed, braced for whatever came next. Inside, the living room was a cocoon of warmth, the fire spitting embers in the hearth. Lance sat by Ellen’s armchair, reading aloud from a dog-eared copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, a ritual he’d started when her eyesight faded and her joints stiffened.

She leaned back, eyes closed, her breathing shallow but steady. The group shuffled in, and Freya’s tone stayed frigid as she gestured to Paul and Ellen. Lance, these are my parents, Paul and Ellen.

Lance looked up, closing the book with a soft thud. He stood, offering a handshake, firm, neutral, his grey eyes sizing them up. Paul.

Ellen, he said, nodding, like he was piecing together a puzzle he’d only heard about in fragments. No warmth, no judgement, just a quiet wait and see. They settled into an uneasy circle, Freya and Sigrid on the couch, Lance back by Eleanor, Paul and Ellen perched on the edge of a love seat like they might bolt.

The silence stretched, heavy as the steam rising from the teapot Freya set on the coffee table. Cups clinked, spoons stirred, but no one spoke until Eleanor’s voice cut through, frail yet fierce. Paul, she said, eyes snapping open, pinning her son where he sat.

I hoped you’d come to your daughter with an apology long before now. Decades. I waited.

Paul flinched, setting his cup down too hard. Mum, we didn’t mean to hurt her, we were just… Scared, Eleanor interrupted, her tone a blade. Freya was a child, seventeen, pregnant, alone, and you turned your backs because you couldn’t handle the responsibility.

Don’t tell me what you meant. Tell me what you did. Ellen’s hands twisted in her lap, her voice small.

We were always worried about her, Ma. Always. Worried, Eleanor scoffed, leaning forward, her cane tapping the floor.

You’d have worried if you’d helped. If you’d called, visited, sent a damn dime for that boy. But you didn’t.

You left her to me and she built a life anyway. A good one. Raised a son who saves lives, married a man who’d walk through fire for her.

This family… She swept a trembling hand across the room. It’s hers. And there’s no place for you in it till you own what you threw away.

Paul’s face crumpled, tears pooling again. We were wrong, Mom. I know it.

We both do. We just… We didn’t know how to fix it. Ellen nodded, sobbing quietly.

We’re so sorry, Freya. We don’t deserve anything. But we’re here now.

Freya sat rigid, staring at the steam curling from her untouched tea. Sigrid’s hand rested on her shoulder, steady, while Lance watched her, waiting for her lead. The room held its breath, Eleanor’s words hanging like a verdict.

Freya finally looked up, eyes wet but unyielding. Sorry’s a start, she said, voice low. But it’s not enough.

Not yet. Paul nodded, swallowing hard, and Ellen clutched his arm, both of them diminished against the family they’d lost. Eleanor eased back in her chair, exhaling, and Lance picked up the book again, his voice resuming softly.

You never really understand a person. The fire crackled on, and the tea grew cold, the first fragile thread of something. Forgiveness, maybe, or just time, dangling in the silence.