It was as if déjà vu wove itself into the very walls of the house. The mother left, the daughter left—and the grandfather stayed behind with his little granddaughter.
Emily had always known how to choose. Wealthy, high-status, successful men orbited her like satellites. Yet, against the expectations of her family and friends, she picked an ordinary bloke from Manchester—Daniel. Not a looker, not a careerist, not a businessman. Just sincere, kind, attentive. The sort who met your gaze and held your hand when things got rough. They lived together only a few months before tying the knot, and soon after, little Isabelle arrived. That was when the real test began.
Emily refused to let motherhood derail her career. Her department dangled a promotion before her—she shone in meetings, jetted off on assignments, drafted reports late into the night. Meanwhile, Daniel had just been laid off—another casualty of company downsizing, his name on the list without explanation. So Emily proposed it: “You’ll take paternity leave. You’d be better at it.” And he agreed, without protest. First for her sake, then for Isabelle’s.
They lived far from family, with no one to lean on. Daniel, the eldest in a large brood, knew how to care for little ones. He threw himself into nappies, baby bottles, porridge, sleepless nights, and trips to the GP. In time, he became a fixture among the mums at the park, debating teething tricks, jabs, and the best way to rock a baby to sleep like a seasoned pro.
Emily, meanwhile, lived out of a suitcase. Conferences, reports, corporate dinners with clients. She’d return home for two days, then vanish again. Daniel endured it. But one day, he asked, “I need to work too. Let’s hire a nanny.” She waved him off:
“Isabelle is attached to you. No nanny could do what you do. Just hold on a little longer, yeah?”
He agreed again. But not long after, she came back from a trip, still in her coat, and said flatly: “I’ve fallen for someone else. He doesn’t want children. So Isabelle stays with you. I’ll come for my things.”
“What? You’re just—leaving?”
“I don’t love you anymore, Dan. I’m sorry. But you’ll manage.”
And she left. No tears, no explanations. As if she’d erased her own family from existence. Daniel was alone—a single dad, no job, no support. But he didn’t crumble. He took odd jobs, got Isabelle into nursery, juggled what he could. Emily turned up only for birthdays—gift in hand, smile plastered on, gone in fifteen minutes.
Isabelle grew up bright, sensitive, and sharp. At school, she pushed herself hard; at home, she clung to the father who’d been both parents to her. She was frosty toward her mother. On the rare visits, she’d say flatly: “You don’t have to come in. Dad and I weren’t waiting for you. We’re fine on our own.”
Isabelle went to uni, introduced Daniel to her boyfriend. They married soon after and moved out. Alone again, Daniel didn’t mope—he’d struck up a warm friendship with Margaret, a neighbor who’d bring over shepherd’s pie and listen to his stories.
But happiness never lingered long. Isabelle’s husband left her with a newborn in her arms. Broken and exhausted, she came back to her father.
“Dad… can we stay with you? I need to figure things out.”
Daniel didn’t refuse. He helped with his granddaughter, carried her, sang lullabies. And Isabelle—she tumbled into another romance. Soon, she left the baby with him. Just as Emily had done.
History repeated itself. This time, Daniel wasn’t surprised. He simply hugged the little one, made her porridge, and sat by her side. Margaret, kind-hearted as ever, filled the kettle and said,
“Well then, Grandad. Shall we start all over again?”
And he smiled. Because despite the betrayal of the two women he’d loved most, this house still held love within its walls.
