My name’s George, and my relationship with my daughter-in-law has been a wreck from day one. I swear, I didn’t do a damn thing wrong—just tried to build some kind of bond with that girl, Emily. But she acted like I was the plague itself.
Emily never picked up when I called. My son, Tom, would ring me back days later, muttering excuses about being too busy. And if I dared to plan a visit to their little rental house out in Willow Creek, she’d vanish faster than a ghost—off to the store, or some friend’s place, any excuse to dodge me.
It drove me up the wall. So, when everything’s rosy for the young ones, I’m invisible, huh? But the second life kicks them in the teeth, they come running to good ol’ Dad like I’m their personal lifeline. Where’s the justice in that? Is it so hard to answer a call, say, “Hey, Dad, we’re fine”? Nope. Tom always fed me the same line: “No time, Dad, I’ll call you back.” Spoiler—he never did.
Then, not long ago, Tom showed up at my doorstep, looking like a lost puppy. Asked if I had a hammer and some nails. I nearly choked. They were renting some overpriced shack in Willow Creek, with a lease that screamed “no repairs allowed” in bold letters! Then he dropped the bomb: “Dad, can me and Emily crash with you for a bit?”
That’s when the whole mess spilled out. The landlord kicked them to the curb—decided to sell the place. Turns out, they hadn’t paid rent in months. No money. Emily’s on “maternity leave,” and Tom? He got the axe at work.
My place is a three-bedroom flat, tucked away in a quiet corner of Ashford. Bought it with my ex-wife years back, but she’s been shacked up with someone else for over a decade now. So, it’s all mine. Nothing fancy, but it’s home. Tom moved out for college, lived in a dorm, then struck out on his own. Met Emily, shacked up with her, lived together a couple years, then tied the knot. They dreamed of buying a house with a loan, but it all fell apart. When I asked Tom what their next move was, he snapped, “Mind your own business, Dad.”
Right from the start, there was this icy wall between me and Emily. I figured maybe she was shy, or scared of me, the gruff old man. Tom kept saying, “That’s just how she is, don’t take it personal, she’s not a talker.” But I’m not stupid. She managed to charm my son somehow, so she’s got a tongue in her head. She knows how to love too—married him, didn’t she? So why’s it such a chore to spare me a word?
Emily hardly ever answered my calls. Tom would call back later, worn out from work, grumbling something vague. I didn’t bother visiting them—why would I? But if I did show up in Willow Creek, she’d bolt out the door like I was the taxman.
I hoped my granddaughter’s birth would thaw things out. Fat chance. Emily turned seeing that little girl into a battle—I practically had to beg for a glimpse. She handled everything herself—her folks live miles away in some backwater town, couldn’t care less about helping out.
Eventually, I gave up. Maybe it’s better I didn’t get too attached to my grandkid. And now, the kids are drowning. Emily’s leave is ending, but her job’s gone. Tom’s unemployed. The landlord’s throwing them out. And here comes my son, hat in hand: “Dad, save us.”
I laid it out plain as day: “You and the little one can stay with me. Emily? She can go to her parents. That’s it.” Just a week ago, she wouldn’t give me the time of day, and now she needs my roof? Sorry, sweetheart, you’re on your own now. Sink or swim.
