**Diary Entry – 23rd September**
Bloody hell, it’s been years since I last saw him. My grandson, Billy—our Billy. Raised him since he was a babe, called us Mum and Dad till he was twelve. Then his mother swooped in, took him away like he was some library book overdue. Broke our hearts.
Yesterday, he turns up in a flashy black car, windows tinted like a spy film. Comes swaggering in, all smiles, acting like no time’s passed. “Grandad, Nan! Got any grub? Starving!” As if he’d just popped round the corner.
Nan—bless her—had been cooking for days, scrubbing the floors till they shone. She’d missed him, poor woman. But me? I knew. The way he slouched at the table, flicking ash on the rug, bragging about his life like he’d won the bloody lottery. Turns out he’d married some politician’s daughter, got sacked, and now drives for a living. That car? Probably leased.
Then he says it, bold as brass: “You’ve got savings, Grandad. Lived your life—time for mine now.”
I walked out. Axe in hand, splitting logs till my knuckles ached. Nan begged me to calm down, but Christ, the nerve of him. Slept right there at the table, empty glass in hand, like some sodden pub patron.
This morning, fresh as a daisy, he wanted another bath, another meal. Then, just like that, “Right, best be off.” No thanks, no shame.
Nan, God love her, tried one last time. “Billy,” she says, voice trembling, “the world doesn’t owe you a thing. You’re just a speck in it. And that soul of yours? Dark as your car windows—you can’t see out, and no one can see in.”
She crossed herself, and we watched him drive off. The silence after was heavier than the autumn rain.
Some folk are like bad weather—you just pray they pass quickly. And never come back.
*Lesson learnt: Blood may be thicker than water, but that doesn’t mean it can’t turn sour.*
