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…

She cradled him close, her arms trembling, as if letting go might unravel the miracle of him. His skin was warm against hers, his little chest rising and falling like a promise. You’re my joy, she whispered, her voice thick with tears, brushing a finger over the tiny hand that latched onto hers with surprising strength.

My secret. Eleanor leaned over the bed, her lined face softening into a rare, wide grin. Look at that, she said, her voice husky with pride.

A fighter, just like his mama. What a head of hair on him. Freya laughed, a shaky, watery sound, and glanced up at her grandmother.

Sigrid, he’s perfect, isn’t he? Perfect as they come, Eleanor agreed, resting a hand on Freya’s shoulder. You did good, kid. Real good.

The room settled into a quiet hum. The beeping monitors, Sigrid’s soft whimpers, the distant chatter of nurses down the hall. Freya traced the curve of his cheek, memorising every detail.

The flutter of his lashes, the way his lips pursed like he was already dreaming. She’d been terrified of this moment, terrified of failing him, of the life ahead. But now, holding him, she felt something stronger take root.

Not just fear, but fight. For him. For them.

Think he’s hungry. Eleanor asked, nodding at the way Sigrid’s mouth rooted against Freya’s chest. Maybe, Freya said, shifting him gently, still marvelling at how fragile he felt.

Guess we’ll figure it out together, huh, little man? Eleanor chuckled, pulling a chair closer. That’s the spirit. You two’ll be just fine.

I’ve got a hunch about it. Freya smiled, exhaustion tugging at her edges. But Sigrid’s weight in her arms kept her tethered.

For the first time since that night on the porch, she believed it might be true. Years slipped by in Eleanor’s little brick house, each one stitching Freya and Sigrid tighter into its cosy fabric. Sigrid grew from a squalling bundle into a wiry, bright-eyed boy, his dark, fluffy hair now a tousled mop that caught the sunlight.

By five, he was a whirlwind of questions. Why do birds sing? How do clouds float? His curiosity as endless as the Springfield sky. Freya and Eleanor took turns answering, marvelling at how his mind raced ahead of his small frame.

But one sticky summer evening, as the crickets chirped and the air hung heavy with honeysuckle, his questions veered into sharper territory. They were out on the veranda, the old wooden boards creaking under their weight. Eleanor sat in her wicker rocker, knitting a lumpy blue scarf, her latest project, while Sigrid sprawled on the steps, a half-melted popsicle dripping orange onto his fingers.

The sun dipped low, painting the garden in shades of gold and pink, the winter roses long replaced by sprawling marigolds. He’d been quiet for a while, unusual for him, until he turned those big, serious hazel eyes on her, eyes that reminded her too much of Freya at that age. Grandma, he said, his voice cutting through the hum of dusk.

Why do all the kids at kindergarten have grandpas and grandmas, and I’ve never seen mine? Mum says you’re my great-grandma. What’s that mean? Eleanor’s knitting needles stilled, the yarn tangling in her lap. She’d known this day would come, kids always sniffed out the gaps in their stories, but the weight of it still caught her off guard.

She set the scarf aside, folding her hands to buy a moment, her weathered fingers tracing the lines of a life that hadn’t been easy. Sigrid watched her, popsicle forgotten, his brow furrowing like he could sense the shift. Sigrid, she started, her voice soft but steady.

That’s not a simple question, sweetheart. It’s… well, it’s a grown-up mess, and you’re still little. But I’ll try.

Sometimes adults make mistakes. Big ones. Your grandpa and grandma, my son and his wife, they got scared a long time ago.

He tilted his head, confusion wrinkling his nose. Scared? Of what? Me? He sat up straighter, the popsicle stick clattering onto the step. I was just a baby when I got borned.

How could they be scared of a baby? Eleanor chuckled faintly, though her chest tightened. Not of you, exactly, little man. It’s hard to explain till you’re older, but I’ll give it a go.

When your mum found out you were coming, it shook them up. They couldn’t see how special it was, how special you’d be. They got stuck worrying about what folks around town might whisper, instead of how much your mum wanted you.

Sigrid’s frown deepened, his small hands bawling into fists. So they didn’t want me. His voice wobbled, barely above a whisper, and the hurt in it sliced straight through her.

No, no, darling, Eleanor said quickly, leaning forward to cup his sticky cheek in her palm. That’s not true, not for a second. They just… They didn’t know what to do with their feelings.

People can be slow to figure things out, and sometimes they miss the good stuff till it’s gone. But your mum… She chose love from the start. Chose you.

That’s what matters most. He stared at her, processing, then turned his gaze out to the garden. The last rays of sun glinted off the marigolds, and a breeze rustled the leaves, carrying the faint buzz of a lawnmower down the street.

But you’re here, he said finally, glancing back at her, a spark of hope flickering in his eyes. You’re always with me, right, Grandma? Always, my dear, Eleanor replied, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. She reached out, ruffling his hair.

Because family’s not just who you’re born to, it’s who sticks by you. Who loves you through the thick of it, and I ain’t going anywhere. Sigrid grinned, a gap-toothed flash that chased the shadows off his face.

Good, he said, picking up his popsicle stick to fiddle with it. Because I like it better with you anyway. Eleanor laughed, a low, warm sound, and picked up her knitting again.

Me too, kiddo, me too. The rocker creaked as she settled back, the evening wrapping around them like a quilt, imperfect. Patched, but holding fast.

Freya stood at the kitchen sink, her hands wrist-deep in soapy water, scrubbing a pot that didn’t need scrubbing. Through the open window, the murmur of Sigrid’s voice and Eleanor’s gravelly replies drifted in from the veranda, carried on the warm August breeze. She’d caught the tail end of it.

They didn’t want me. And her breath hitched, the sponge slipping from her fingers to plop into the suds. Tears welled up, hot and sudden, spilling down her cheeks before she could blink them back…