Our grandad, Alfred “Alfie” Thompson, was the rock of our big family at seventy. His word was law, his wisdom our guide. All of us—his kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids—looked up to him and hung on his every piece of advice. That was until recently. Alfie and our late grandma, Margaret, had been inseparable for over forty years. Together, they raised their two kids—our parents—three grandkids, and three great-grandkids. Our family was tight-knit, bonded by shared joys and sorrows, celebrations and tough times.
Alfie and Margaret were our foundation. Their cosy cottage in the quiet countryside near York, with its well-kept garden and veggie patch, felt like a second home to all of us. They loved pottering about, and we were amazed at how much energy they had. Our family was incredibly close—we gathered for every holiday, took trips to the Lake District together, and even treated Alfie and Margaret to spa getaways in Cornwall.
We all chipped in, doing whatever we could to keep them happy. In return, they never let us down—sending homemade jams, helping out with cash, even pitching in for our first home when we were newlyweds. Their love and care meant the world to us.
But three years ago, Margaret passed, and everything changed. Alfie was alone, and we could see how much he struggled. He buried himself in chores, trying to fill the void. The house and garden were too much for him, though. We begged him to move to the city—why put himself through that alone? But Alfie wouldn’t budge.
*”This is my place,”* he’d say firmly. *”I was born here, and I’ll stay here. I’ll manage. And Daphne’s helping me out.”*
Daphne, his neighbour, started dropping by more often. At first, she’d bring him meals—Alfie was hopeless in the kitchen. We were grateful; we didn’t want him to feel lonely. But soon, Daphne moved in permanently. We were actually relieved—Alfie, still sharp and full of life, started smiling again, that spark back in his eyes. We visited, tried to keep things normal.
Daphne? Well, she always gave us weird vibes. Something felt off, but we brushed it aside—as long as Alfie was happy. Then, a year after Margaret’s passing, they announced they were getting married. It hit us like a ton of bricks. We never saw it coming. Alfie just dropped it on us, and there was nothing we could do.
Not everyone went to the wedding. My dad, Alfie’s eldest, was furious. He said Alfie had moved on too fast, betrayed Margaret’s memory. That’s when the cracks started showing in our family. But the real nightmare came later, when Daphne, now his wife, showed her true colours.
She set new rules. We couldn’t just pop by anymore—Daphne insisted we called first. Our big family gatherings, a tradition for years, were cancelled. Alfie and Daphne spent all their time with *her* side of the family, like we didn’t exist. He barely spoke to the grandkids he’d once doted on.
Worse, all Margaret’s jewellery—meant to stay in the family—went straight to Daphne’s daughters. Whenever we tried to talk to Alfie, Daphne hovered, listening in, making him put us on speakerphone. On the rare times she wasn’t around, Alfie still brushed us off. He’d turned cold, like he’d forgotten who we were.
We told him, again and again—we didn’t want his house or his money. We just wanted *him*, our family, back. But all he’d say was, *”Stay away from my new life.”* Those words cut deep. How could the man who’d been our anchor just… walk away? And how do we move on, watching the family we loved fall apart?
