Happiness Built on Another’s Sorrow: How a Grandson Left His Grandfather Homeless
My name is Eleanor Whitmore, and I live in a quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of York. Everyone here knows each other, especially the elderly. There was an old man among us—William Hartley. He had just turned eighty-two, but he carried himself with vigor despite his thin frame and slightly stooped back. Every morning, he’d start his old Rover and drive into town—to collect his pension, pick up medicine, or visit the market. He even had a companion—Margaret Bennett, twenty years his junior, lively, well-kept, with kind eyes. They took evening walks, hand in hand, like teenagers in love. The neighbors and I admired them, and if I’m honest, we envied their quiet happiness a little.
Then one day, William’s grandson showed up. He’d come from a village near Leeds—Oliver. At first glance, he seemed a modest lad, twenty-seven, polite, even a bit shy. He explained there was no work back home, life was unbearable, and asked his grandfather to take him in temporarily. Just until he found a job, he said—then he’d rent his own place and bring his fiancée over. William didn’t hesitate for a second—of course he let him in. Family is family, after all.
At first, things seemed normal. Oliver went to job interviews, searching for his place. His grandfather helped where he could—feeding him, buying him clothes, even giving him pocket money. Margaret had to step back—all resources went to the young man. She only sighed but understood: family comes first.
Two months passed. Oliver’s job hunt lost its urgency—his grandfather’s pension was rather generous. There was enough for cigarettes, taxis, and nights out with mates. But his village sweetheart, Lucy, called almost every evening: “When will you bring me to the city?” So Oliver took the plunge—he got a job as a supermarket guard and earned his first paycheck.
Then came the chilling turn. He approached his grandfather with the kindest eyes and said, “Grandad, I want to live with you properly. Let’s register me as a temporary resident, and to keep it all legal, sign a few papers about the flat. I’ll pay you rent, just like normal.” William, barely glancing at the papers, signed.
A week later, Lucy moved in—young, manicured, with a spoiled air. Soon after, the pair informed William the flat was now theirs. Turns out, he’d signed it over. The old man went pale, shaking with horror and shame. He couldn’t believe his own grandson had betrayed him so cruelly.
The youngsters didn’t waste time. They suggested William and Margaret move to an old cottage in the countryside—”for the fresh air,” they claimed it would be better for them. But Margaret wasn’t the woman they took her for. She’d worked at a broadcasting company for years and knew journalists, lawyers, and influential people. She raised such an uproar that the story made the news.
When the neighbors learned the truth, they marched to the police as one. Statements were filed, witnesses brought in, and every detail laid bare. A few days later, officers turned up at the door. Oliver knew—his scheme had failed. Under public pressure, he gave up the flat, packed his bags, and fled with Lucy back to the village. But not his own—even there, he was met with scorn. His family disowned him. Even his mother said she wanted nothing more to do with him.
William stayed in his flat, but the joy didn’t return at once. For a long time, he just stared out the window in silence. Only Margaret held his hand and whispered, “You’re not alone, Will. We’re in this together.”
Sometimes betrayal doesn’t come from strangers. It shares your name, calls you “Grandad,” and smiles sweetly—until it takes everything you have.
