Our grandfather, William Harrison, was at seventy years old the steadfast pillar of our large family. His word was law, his wisdom our compass. We, his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, revered him and hung on his every piece of advice. That was how it had always been—until recently. William and our late grandmother, Margaret, had shared a love that lasted over forty years. Together, they raised two children—our parents—three grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren. Our family was a close-knit clan, bound by shared joys and sorrows, celebrations and trials.
Grandfather and Grandmother were our foundation. Their spacious cottage in a quiet village near York, surrounded by a well-tended garden and orchard, was a second home to us all. They took joy in tending to their land, and we often marvelled at their energy. Our family was inseparable: we gathered for every holiday, took trips to the Lake District, and even arranged stays in the finest seaside retreats along the Cornish coast for Grandfather and Grandmother.
We shared expenses, doing all we could to ensure their happiness. In return, they never abandoned us in hard times—sending homemade preserves, assisting with money, even once helping our young family with the mortgage. Their love and care were beyond measure.
But three years ago, Grandmother passed, and everything changed. Grandfather was left alone, and we saw how heavily grief weighed upon him. He buried himself in work, trying to fill the void. The cottage and land demanded effort he no longer had. We begged him to move to the city—why struggle alone in the countryside? But Grandfather was unmoved.
“This is my land,” he’d say firmly. “I was born here, and here I’ll stay. I’ll manage the work—don’t fret. And Mabel will lend a hand.”
Mabel, the neighbour, began visiting more often. At first, she brought him meals—Grandfather had never been much of a cook. We were grateful for her kindness, not wanting him to feel lonely. But soon, Mabel moved in for good. At first, we were relieved—Grandfather, still strong and full of life, began to smile again, his eyes regaining their spark. We visited, trying to keep the bond alive.
Mabel, truth be told, had always unsettled us. There was something off about her, but we brushed it aside—what mattered was Grandfather’s happiness. Yet a year after Grandmother’s passing, they announced their marriage. It felt like a betrayal. We never imagined things would go so far. Grandfather simply informed us, leaving us powerless to object.
Not all of us attended the wedding. My father, Grandfather’s eldest son, was furious. He believed Grandfather had forgotten Grandmother too quickly, dishonouring her memory. That was when the rift in our family began. But the real nightmare started later, when Mabel, now his wife, revealed her true nature.
She began imposing her own rules. We could no longer visit without calling first—Mabel demanded notice. The family gatherings we’d always cherished were cancelled. Now, Grandfather spent holidays with Mabel’s relatives, as if we no longer existed. He even stopped speaking to the grandchildren and great-grandchildren he’d once adored.
Worse still, all of Grandmother’s heirlooms, meant to be passed down to us as family treasures, Mabel gave to her own daughters. We tried speaking to Grandfather, but Mabel was always there, monitoring every word, insisting calls be on speakerphone. On the rare moments she wasn’t, Grandfather still brushed us off. He became distant, cold, as if under her influence, he’d forgotten who we were.
We tried to explain—we didn’t want his cottage or his money. We only wanted our family back, the Grandfather who had meant everything to us. But he’d only say, “Keep away from my new family.” Those words cut deepest. How could the man who had been the heart of our lives turn his back on us? And how do we carry on, watching the family we once treasured crumble before our eyes?
