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 pressed a damp hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. That old wound, her parents’ rejection, the sting of being cast out, ripped open anew, hearing Sigrid wrestle with it. But Eleanor’s voice, steady and kind, wove through the pain like a balm, softening the edges.

As always, her grandmother knew just what to say, shielding Sigrid’s tender heart without dodging the truth. Mum? Sigrid’s voice piped up from the doorway, snapping her out of it. He padded in, barefoot and sticky-fingered, his popsicle stick still clutched like a prize.

You okay? Your eyes are all wet? Freya swiped at her face with a dish towel, forcing a smile. Yeah, buddy, I’m fine. Just got some soap in my eyes.

Stings like crazy. She turned back to the sink, rinsing the pot for the third time. How’s Grandma’s scarf coming along? It’s lumpy, he said with a giggle, hopping onto a stool at the counter.

She says it’s character. I think it’s funny-looking. Sounds like Grandma, Freya said, her laugh shaky but real.

She glanced out the window again, Eleanor rocking in her chair, knitting needles clicking, and felt a rush of gratitude. Sigrid didn’t press further, already distracted, chattering about a beetle he’d seen in the garden. She let his words wash over her, anchoring her back to the present.

The years rolled on, each one piling new challenges onto their little family. Sigrid shot up like a weed, lanky legs, a mop of hair that refused taming, and a mind that buzzed louder every day. By second grade, school became his playground.

He was the kid who lingered after class, peppering Mrs. Larson with questions about why leaves turned red or how magnets stuck. Science hooked him hardest. Biology, physics, anything with a puzzle to crack.

He’d come home with library books dog-eared and smudged, sprawling on the living room rug to sketch diagrams of circuits or bug wings. He’s got a gift, Mrs. Larson told Freya at a parent-teacher night, her glasses glinting under the fluorescent lights of Springfield Elementary. Loves solving problems, finds these elegant little answers that make you wonder why you didn’t see it that way.

And the way he explains it? Half the class gets it because of him. Freya beamed, clutching a styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee. He’s always been like that, figuring stuff out.

Drives me nuts sometimes, all those whys. Well, hang on to that, Mrs. Larson said with a chuckle. Kids going places.

Back home, Sigrid proved it daily. One rainy afternoon, he sat cross-legged at the kitchen table, a dismantled flashlight spread out before him. Batteries, bulb, bits of wire.

Look, Mom, he called, holding up a glowing contraption. Timmy didn’t get how it worked, so I showed him with this. It’s just electrons moving.

Simple, right? Freya leaned over, ruffling his hair. Simple for you, maybe. I’d have shocked myself silly.

You’re going to teach me something one day, huh? Only if you stop burning toast, he teased, grinning that gap-toothed grin, and she swatted him playfully with a dish towel. Watching him grow, his quick mind, his quiet confidence, Freya felt the ache of those early years ease. The pain of her parents’ absence lingered, a bruise that never quite faded, but Sigrid’s light outshone it.

He was her proof that love could build something stronger than fear ever tore down. Freya had carved out a steady rhythm in Springfield, a life that didn’t glitter but held firm. For years, she’d waited tables at Rosie’s diner, a squat little joint on the edge of town with cracked vinyl booths and a jukebox that hadn’t worked since the nineties.

She’d started there right after moving in with Eleanor, a gig to keep the lights on while Sigrid napped in the back office, cradled in a second-hand car seat. Dreams of a degree, maybe nursing or teaching, danced in her head some nights, but she’d shelved them. Time with Sigrid trumped everything.

Every shift, every tip, every double she pulled, she socked away into a coffee can under her bed, labelled Sigrid’s future in Sharpie. Pennies, crumpled fives, whatever she could spare. It was for him, for college, for a shot she’d never had.

But fate, as it often did, had other plans. It was a muggy Thursday in late spring. Freya hadn’t slept right the night before.

She dragged through her shift, the diner’s fluorescent buzz drilling into her skull. Her aprons sagged with coffee pot weight, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum as she refilled cups. She was mid-pore, topping off a trucker’s mug when a wave of dizziness hit.

Fatigue, maybe. Or the heat. Her foot caught the edge of a chair leg and she stumbled, the pot tipping.

Hot coffee splashed across a table in a dark steaming arc, soaking papers, a phone and the lap of a man in a suit that screamed money. Crisp navy, tailored. Not the kind you grab off a rack at Walmart.

Oh my God, Freya gasped, the pot clattering to the table as she snatched napkins from her apron. I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t mean… She dabbed at the mess, her face burning, words tumbling out.

I’ll clean it up, I swear, I’ll pay for it. The man brushed coffee off his sleeve, frowning, his jaw tight. He was older, fortyish maybe, with sharp cheekbones and a slick of dark hair greying at the temples.

Freya braced for a tirade, but he just stared at her, silent, as she babbled on. I can ask my boss for the rest of the day off. There’s a dry cleaner two blocks down…