Happiness Built on Another’s Sorrow: How a Grandson Left His Grandfather Without a Roof
My name is Margaret Simmons, and I live in a quiet neighbourhood on the outskirts of York. Everyone here knows each other—especially the elderly. There was this old man, Albert Whitmore, who’d just turned eighty-two. Despite his thin frame and slight stoop, he carried himself with vigour. Every morning, he’d start up his old Rover and drive into town—whether to collect his pension, fetch medicine, or shop at the market. He even had a companion—Eleanor Hartley, twenty years his junior, lively, well-kept, with kind eyes. They’d stroll hand in hand in the evenings, like sweethearts on their first date. We neighbours often watched them with admiration—and, truth be told, a twinge of envy—for their quiet happiness.
Then one day, Albert’s grandson appeared. He’d come from a village near Nottingham—Edward. A seemingly modest boy, twenty-seven, polite, even a little shy. He claimed there was no work back home, no future, and begged his grandfather to take him in. Just until he found a job, he insisted—then he’d rent his own place and bring his sweetheart over. Albert didn’t hesitate for a second—of course he let him stay. Family is family, after all.
At first, things were bearable. Edward dashed from interview to interview, searching for his place. His grandfather helped however he could—fed him, clothed him, even slipped him pocket money. Eleanor got less attention—most of Albert’s energy went to the lad. She sighed but understood: blood comes first.
Two months passed. Edward lost interest in work—his grandfather’s pension was surprisingly generous. There was enough for cigarettes, cab fares, and nights out with mates. Only his village sweetheart, Charlotte, kept ringing every evening: “When will you bring me to the city?” Then Edward finally landed a job—a security guard at a supermarket—and got his first wage.
And then came the moment that turned everything cold. He approached his grandfather with the gentlest eyes and said, “Granddad, I want to live with you properly. Let’s get me registered here, make it official. Just sign a few papers for the flat—I’ll pay you rent, all above board.” Albert, barely glancing at the documents, signed.
A week later, Charlotte moved in—manicured, sharp-eyed, full of demands. Soon after, the pair declared the flat was now theirs. Turned out, Albert had signed over the deed. The old man turned ghostly pale, shaking with horror and humiliation. He couldn’t believe his own flesh and blood had played him so cruelly.
The young couple didn’t linger over niceties. They offered to “relocate” Albert and Eleanor to an old cottage in the countryside—for the “fresh air,” they claimed. But Eleanor wasn’t the pushover they took her for. She’d spent years working for the BBC, knew journalists, solicitors, influential figures. She raised hell—soon, the scandal made headlines.
When the neighbours learned the truth, they marched to the police together. Statements were filed, witnesses summoned, every detail laid bare. Days later, officers knocked at the door. Edward realised his scheme had collapsed. Under public pressure, he relinquished the flat, packed his bags, and fled with Charlotte back to the village—but not his own. Even there, he was met with scorn. His family turned their backs. His own mother said she wanted nothing more to do with him.
Albert stayed in his home, but the joy didn’t return quickly. He spent days staring out the window in silence. Only Eleanor held his hand and whispered, “You’re not alone, Bertie. We’re in this together.”
Sometimes betrayal doesn’t come from strangers. It shares your surname, calls you “Granddad,” and smiles sweetly—until it takes everything you have.
