She Pretended to Be an Orphan to Marry Into Wealth, Hired Me as the Nanny for My Own Grandson, and P…

She claimed to be an orphan to marry into a wealthy family, and hired me as the nanny for my own grandson.

Is there any ache deeper than having your own daughter sign your paycheque, just so you may cradle your grandson in your arms?

I agreed to become a servant in her manor, to don a uniform and bow my head as she passedas long as it meant I could be near her child. She told her husband I was from the agency. But yesterday, when the boy called me Grandma by accident, she dismissed me like yesterdays newspaper, desperate to keep her lie alive.

The Dream

In this vast country house with ceilings so high that voices echoed and marble so cold it numbed the feet, my name was Mary. Only Mary. The nanny. The woman who scrubbed the bottles, changed nappies, and slept in a windowless box-room behind the pantry.

But my true name was Mum. Or it was, before my daughter decided to make a living ghost of me.

She was called Abigail. Always a striking girl, and forever ashamed of our poverty. Shed loathe the rattling roof of our terrace house, and she despised the fact I hawked homemade jams at the market to pay for her lessons.

At twenty, she left.

Ill find a life that doesnt reek of yeast and sweat, she said, standing in the hall.

She vanished for three years. Reimagined herself. Changed her surname, bleached her hair, took lessons in manners and diction. She met Edwarda wealthy businessman, a gentleman of the old school. To fit into his world, Abigail spun a tragic yarn: she was an orphan, the only daughter of academics lost in a rail accident somewhere in Europe. Alone, refined, a woman of no history.

When she fell pregnant, fear overwhelmed her. Shed never held a baby, trusted no strangers, and craved someone whose love was unqualifiedwhile her secret had to be guarded. So she sought me out.

Mum, I need you, she wept at my door, wearing clothes that surely cost more than my entire home. But you must understand: Edward can never know you exist. If he learns the truth, hell leave me. His family are sticklers.

What would you have me do, love? I asked.

Come live with us. Be the live-in nanny. Ill pay you. Youll be with your grandson. But you must promiseswearyoull never let slip youre my mother. Youll be Mary, from the agency, nothing more.

I agreed.

Because I am a mother. And the thought of never seeing my grandson hurt me more than any loss of pride.

For two years, I lived her fiction.

Edward is a good man.

Morning, Mary, he always said. Thank you for looking after little Oliver. Dont know what wed do without you.

But Abigailshe was my judge and executioner.

When he was away, her chill froze me clean through.

Mary, dont kiss the child, its unhygienic.

Mary, dont sing those old songs, play him Bach and Mozart.

Mary, keep to your room when we have guests. I dont want you seen.

I kept my silence and hugged Oliver tight. To him I was warmth, his safe place. He knew nothing of class. He simply recognised love.

Yesterday was his second birthday.

A garden do. Streamers danced in the wind. Genteel laughter drifted, champagne fizzed. I was there, grey uniformed, at the little ones side.

Abigail glowed, her perfect life on display.

I so wish my parents could have seen their grandson, she cooed to a lady in pearls.

Suddenly Oliver tripped and scraped his knee. Tears rolled.

Abigail hurried to him. He turned away, wriggling, and flung out small arms toward me.

Grandma! he wailed. I want Grandma!

The garden stilled.

Edwards brow furrowed. Abigails face drained of colour.

What did he say? someone inquired.

Nothing, Abigail said swiftly. He calls the nanny that, just affection.

Oliver clung to me.

Grandma, kiss it better.

I picked him up. I couldnt stop myself.

Im here, darling.

Abigails glare was cold as frost. She yanked him free.

Inside! And pack your things! Youre dismissed!

Edward stepped in.

Why on earth are you sacking her? The boy adores her.

Because she oversteps! Abigail snapped.

He turned to me, searching.

Marywhy does Oliver call you Grandma?

I looked at my daughter. She pleaded, silently. Then I looked at the child.

Mr Edwards, I said gently. Because children always tell the truth.

And I told him everything.

Showed him old photographs. The truth rose, shimmering and strange, into the bright afternoon.

The pain in Edwards eyes was deeper than anger.

I dont care that youre poor, he told Abigail softly. I care that you disowned your mother.

He looked back at me.

This is your home, too.

No, I replied. My home is wherever my name is not a shame.

I kissed Oliver.

And I left.

Today I sit in my tiny kitchen, smelling of bread and warmth. My heart aches. I pine for my grandson.

But I have reclaimed my name.

And no one can take that from me.

And youdo you think a lie done for loves sake is ever right, or does the truth always find its way?